


All Together Now

by Shay_Fae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, First Love, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:36:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Fae/pseuds/Shay_Fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's a camp counselor and Sherlock's just the strange new lifeguard. But that's barely scratching the surface now, isn't it?</p><p>Sleepaway camp AU because it's summer :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I've Just Seen a Face

“Alright guys, rise and shine,” John cried, and the fourth graders in their bunk beds groaned at him, burrowing deeper into their blankets.

“First one dressed doesn’t have to do their chore tonight,” he offered, smiling, and fourteen kids jumped like demons from their beds, running to the too-small bathroom in the back of B221.

At seventeen-years-old, John had been a counselor at Camp Baker only once before, last year, for the youngest group or the third graders, a few of whom were in his bunk now. And yet, he was one of the most popular staff members. It didn't hurt how much he actually loved his boys, crazy and in this case lazy, as they were.

“Jason’s dressed,” Mike Stamford, his co-counselor, announced from the front door and the boys groaned.

“Better luck next time, guys,” John encouraged, swinging little Carl up onto his back and starting outside. “Now get your buts to breakfast!” They ran outside, the two tall counselors keeping their flock in line, and headed down to the mess hall. Even though he’d spent a whole two months here the year before, John still marveled at how beautiful Camp Baker was, with a huge lake, two basketball courts, activity shacks and a giant dining hall in the center of the camp that separated the boys’ bunks from the girls’.

As the boys sat at their tables, eating noisily, John took a look at their schedule. “We have arts and crafts first, then swim,” he told Mike, who sat at the end of the big wooden table and was trying to keep Harry and Sam from killing each other with plastic forks. “Then riflery and lunch.”

“We haven’t had swim yet,” Mike pointed out, and they were already four days into first half. “Should we take them back first to change?”

“Might be best,” John agreed and then was immediately distracted by Julius, who’d managed to get an angry-looking gash down his leg before the day had even started.

Dressed in swimsuits, cuts properly bandaged, and sunscreen liberally applied, the boys headed out to arts and crafts where they made coffee mugs and then headed down, running and hollering, to the lake.

Camp Baker lake stood at the edge of camp before the area turned to forest. It was huge, nearly twelve feet deep, and on a clear day like today you could see the sky reflected back off the water. The boys ran down to the shack to get lifejackets, already experts on lake time from last year, and John went to sign in with Greg, the head lifeguard, at the shack on the edge of the lake.

Greg wasn’t in the shack, but another lifeguard was. John didn’t recognize him from last year, and he was sure he must be new, because there was no way he’d missed this boy the whole of last summer. He was tall, all hard angles, with skin too pale for that much sun exposure. He had on swim trunks and the red tee-shirt all the lifeguards wore. But it was his hair, midnight-black, curly, and long enough that it hung in his eyes, that caught John’s attention.

“Hi, I’m the counselor for B221,” John said, coming in and the boy looked up. He had the most unusual eyes John had ever seen, grey and unfathomable. “John Watson.”

“Right, yes,” the boy nodded, taking out a sign-up sheet. “Your kids are getting life jackets from another guard now, right?”

“They should be,” John laughed, glancing out of the shack to see Mike helping a boy buckle his vest. “Where’s Greg?”

“He’ll be down soon,” the teen said, getting up. “We’ll get your kids into the water as soon as they’re ready.”

“Great,” John smiled, following the pale life-guard out of the shack. They stood on the shack steps, moving to go down, when John paused.

“I’m sorry, is this your first year?” he asked and the boy turned around, surprised. “It’s just, I’ve never seen you before and I worked here last year.”

“Do you make a point to meet every staff member?” the teen asked, raising one eyebrow.

John smiled. “I try,” he said and the lifeguard gazed at him, face unreadable. Finally, he stuck out a hand.

“Yes, I am new,” he confessed and John shook his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

At the touch of skin on skin, a strange soft of jolt went through John. He couldn’t explain it, but the sight of the boy’s long, thin fingers getting lost in his own tan ones made his stomach pool with heat.

“Alright boys, let’s get you in the water!” Greg yelled suddenly, running down the hill to the lake, and John released Sherlock’s hand, an unexplained flush creeping up the back of his neck. He blamed it on the sun.

And then Sherlock ran down to the lake, rescue tube under his arms, and John settled on the counselor benches with Mike to watch their kids laugh and push each other off lake toys and John promptly forgot about the electrical current that had run through him at the mere touch of Sherlock. Well, he tried to.

*

“Are you going to the staff party tonight?” Mike asked as they watched their tired kids climb into bunk-beds.

“Someone’s gotta stay with them,” John said. The camp always held a welcome-to-camp party for its staff at the end of the first week. It was mostly for the specialty counselors though, like the ones who ran sports or lifeguarding. Bunk counselors had a harder time getting away.

“We can take shifts,” Mike suggested. “Tell them a bedtime story and head out. Stay an hour and give me a turn.”

“You’re the greatest Mike,” John smiled, clapping him on the shoulder, before closing the lights and settling on the floor.

The boys were all fourth-graders, yes, and far too old for bedtime stories. But John had found that so far away from home, and often alone for the first time in their lives, the little ones appreciated a voice lulling them off to sleep.

And John adored telling stories. He would never call himself a writer, but he never used a book. All the stories he told were from his mind alone, and the kids drank them up like water. Yet another reason boys fought so hard for John Watson as a counselor.

“Who remembers what the last thing that happened was?” John asked and a chorus of sleepy voices informed him very hurriedly that last night he’d left off with Oliver Cromes, the double-agent spy for MI5, on the edge of a very steep cliff surrounded by Russians.

“Alright,” he said, leaning on his thighs. “So Oliver was fully surrounded. But luckily, none of the assassins knew about the six grenades in his pocket, or about his ability to see underwater.”

Twenty minutes later, the inhabitants of B221 slept like the dead and John crept out of the bunkhouse, promising Mike he’d be back in an hour. He could see the camp fire from the staff party from his porch as they burned by the volleyball court in the middle of the sand.

John ran down, following the music as it got louder and louder, before he found himself surrounded by the rest of the Camp Baker staff. Someone handed him a coke can and he’d taken one sip before he saw someone wave at him across the sand.

“John!” the girl smiled, running over as her brown hair flew out behind her, and John took a minute to stare at her.

“Hey Sarah,” he grinned at the archery counselor. He’d met Sarah the year before, but in a year she’d gotten near gorgeous, in a pair of jean shorts and white tank-top. “How are you?”

“Good, you?” she asked, hugging him. “Heard you’re doing kid coral again.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, offering her his can and she took it gratefully, drinking. That was another wonderful thing about camp. No one gave a flying fig about germs. “They’re great kids.”

“Cause you’re so good with them,” she encouraged and he flushed. He suddenly spotted a pale figure on the other side of the fire and paused. Sarah followed his line of sight and smiled.

“He’s new,” she commented. “I met him at the specialty counselor meeting. He’s a lifeguard, I think. Named Sherly?”

“Sherlock,” John corrected, smirking. “I met him when my kids had swim.”

“He’s a bit odd,” Sarah noted. “Sam said when all the lifeguards were going over lake rules with Greg, he kept correcting him about safety. Funny thing was, he was right every time.”

“He seems nice enough,” John said, shrugging. He never was a fan of the camp gossip that seemed to consume everyone. Without access to TVs or computers, and with limited phone time, it really was the only thing to entertain them.

“I’m gonna go make sure he’s okay,” John said to Sarah, noticing how very _alone_ the teenager was.

Sarah laughed. “You never turn it off, do you? Your little nurturing complex.”

“Nope,” John smiled, running over to where Sherlock sat alone on a log. He sat down and Sherlock startled, as though surprised anyone bothered to sit next to him.

“Are you alright?” John asked, leaning over. “John, remember, counselor-“

“Yes, yes, I remember,” Sherlock snapped and John carefully straightened. “And yes, I’m fine.”

“I’m sure, “ John said carefully. “It’s just, you’re not talking to anybody.”

“I try not to make conversations with dull people,” the teen huffed and John tilted his head.

“Dull?” he checked and Sherlock’s glare could have frozen lava.

“Yes, dull,” he sighed, turning to the collection of teenagers by the large bonfire. “Those two are hooking up, pink shirt hated red shirt because red shirt has the job she wanted, boy with black hair wants to date that redhead by the cooler, but she’d got a boyfriend back home. Dull.”

“I guess you’re kept up on the camp gossip mill,” John joked, unsure of himself.

“Don’t be ridiculous, how can I know whatever nonsensical rumors our fellow counselors spread if I refuse to talk to dull people?” Sherlock questioned, not taking his eyes away from the fire.

John stared at him, confused. “Then how did you know all that?”

“I didn’t know, I observed,” Sherlock said briskly, and John had no idea what to make of that. With an almighty sigh, as though John had asked him to wash the dishes or mop the dining hall, Sherlock turned his gaze on the teen. His grey eyes swept up the boy’s body once, twice and then settled on John’s face, grey locked on ocean blue.

“You love the kids, but even if you hated them you’d work here, you need the money. Single mother, father left, no- died. Have one sibling, younger or they’d be working here too. But not much younger, father’s death was not recent. I’d say two years,” he said and John’s face told him everything he needed.

“Yes, two, but then why couldn’t they work here as a junior counselor? Involved in something, drugs unlikely but perhaps drinking. Boy then, more likely. So younger brother, heavy drinker. Just like father.”

John stared at him, mouth slightly agape, and Sherlock braced himself for the blow he knew was coming. Generally it was verbal, but John looked like a hitter. But instead of a blunt impact against his face, all his got was a puff of air as John exhaled.

“Brilliant,” he breathed and Sherlock looked up.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock checked, but John could not stop staring at him.

“You are brilliant. How did you do that?” he asked moving closer, and Sherlock could feel heat radiating off of him, hotter than the fire.

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock confessed.

“What do people usually say?” John asked, taking the bait.

“Piss off,” Sherlock said and John burst into laughter. Sherlock looked confused at the sudden noise and then relaxed as he realized John wasn’t laughing at him.

“I wasn’t sure you had a brother at all,” Sherlock offered and John quieted. “That was the leap, but a good one. Your face was my conformation and I moved from there.”

“And how’d you know about my dad?” John pressed, pushing back unpleasant memories.

“Your shaving strokes are uneven,” Sherlock said and John’s eyes widened. “You can see, especially in the firelight, it’s faint but they’re across instead of against the grain. No one ever taught you to shave, you taught yourself. Ergo, dead father who passed a while ago, long before you started needing to shave.”

“And how’d you know about Harry’s drinking?” John pushed.

Sherlock smiled at the name. “This camp employed nearly everyone. And it’s clear your mother would want you both working, I can spot second-hand clothes from a mile away. Don’t be self-conscious, most people can’t. The only people this camp doesn’t hire are kids with drugs or alcohol problems. And, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem rich enough for drug problems. So drinking it is.”

“Brilliant,” John repeated, marveling at the teen.

“You do realize you’re saying that out loud?” Sherlock said uncomfortably and John flushed.

“Oh sorry,” he excused, looking down.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sherlock said quickly and John smiled shyly to himself. He checked his watch and jumped up, shocked.

“I’m so sorry, I promised my co-counselor a turn and I gotta go back and stay with our kids,” he excused and Sherlock stood.

“No problem,” he smiled hesitantly. “I’ll walk you back. I’m tired at any rate.”

John waved goodbye to Sarah and the two teens wandered up the hill and down the gravel road that ran through camp. As the music faded behind them, the sounds of the night settled in. It was a comfortable silence, but Sherlock broke it anyway, turning to John.

“So, did I get anything wrong?’ he asked, smiling.

“My dad died eight years ago,” John confessed, and he knew instinctively the smile that stayed on Sherlock’s face wasn’t insensitivity but just giddiness at being right. “And Harry does have a bit of a drinking problem.”

“Better than I expected,” Sherlock crowed but John cut him off.

“Harry is short for Harriet,” he said and Sherlock stopped dead. John thought he may have shocked the teen into silence but he was hardly so lucky.

“Harry is your _sister_ ,” Sherlock hissed and John nearly laughed out loud at the face he made, a cross between disgusted and annoyed, wrinkly nose included.

“This is me,” John prompted at they passed by B221.

“There’s always _something_ ,” Sherlock ranted, flinging his hands up in defeat, and John laughed.

“Don’t worry, you were still brilliant,” he promised and Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of awe and joy. “Well, goodnight then.”

“Goodnight,” Sherlock echoed, still staring at him, and John felt the same goose bumps line his skin at the thought of those brilliant eyes on him.

“See you at swim,” John offered and Sherlock grinned, real and vivid, and it made John’s heart freeze. _What on earth is happening to me? If he wasn’t a bloke, I’d think I was-_

“I’ll count the minutes,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically, but John understood him all the same. And then John opened the door and walked into the pitch-black cabin, leaving the taller teen alone on the gravel road.

  
  


  
  



	2. Nowhere Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's been a bit of confusion as to where our boys actually are. Basically, I'm not really sure. I'm a Brit who went to sleep-away in America, so this thing's gonna be a whole mess of both cultures. If you'd like, you can imagine it's in a mythical land where both Brits and Americans live in harmony :)

“Did you hear?” Sarah asked, coming over to John that next morning. John’s campers were at archery, their bows carefully lined up and pulled back, and another activity counselor was going around checking their positions.

“What?” John asked, turning to face her. She leaned in close, making sure the younger campers couldn’t hear.

“Last night, after you left, Jamie tried to hook up with Sherlock,” she said.

A flash of something went through John that, should he have liked Jamie, could have easily been explained as jealousy. But Jamie, hot as she was, was not his type. It was far too easy for John to picture Jamie, tall, blonde and thin, with Sherlock and for some reason that made him irrationally angry.

“Are they a thing now?” John asked, suddenly interested. It wasn’t that exciting a story, couples happened all over camp. It was hardly surprising, Sherlock certainly was good-looking. Someone not as straight as John might even say he was handsome.

“That’s the thing,” Sarah smiled at him, eyes shining. “He turned her down.”

“He turned Jamie Kurith down?” John repeated, shocked. There were guys at camp who would have easily given their left arms to hook up with Jamie Kurith.

“John, look!” Jordan suddenly interrupted, tugging on John’s sleeve, and he quickly turned to note the bulls-eye in Jordan’s target.

“Great shot, Jordan,” he smiled, ruffling his hair, and Jordan smiled back, running to get more arrows.

John turned back to Sarah, noting the smirk on her face. “Did he say why?” John pressed, unsure of why he cared so much.

Sarah shook her head. “Just said no.” She paused a minute, and then leaned in to say, “Of course, now all the girls want him.”

“Because he turned someone down?” John laughed, shaking his head. “I will never understand you girls.”

“John!” Mike called from across the archery field. “Can Jared go to the bathroom?”

“Not till Sam gets back,” John yelled back and smiled at Sarah. “God, I love this job.”

She grinned at him. A year ago, that grin would have made his heart turn over and his brain think nasty things. Now it did absolutely nothing and he had no idea why.

“Anyway,” Sarah said, hands in her shorts’ pockets. “A bunch of us are driving to ASDA tonight. If you can get away, you wanna hitch a ride?”

“I really need bug spray,” John confessed, thinking. “I might just give you money. I don’t know who’s watching my kids tonight. I can’t leave Mike alone twice.”

“So ask Nichole to watch them,” Sarah suggested. “She’s not going.”

Nichole was an arts and crafts counselor. She would stand guard outside the bunk for an hour if John asked her to. But he didn’t know if he wanted to call in that favor yet.

Sarah grinned at him. “The lifeguards are coming. They need towels and clipboards.”

“Why would that change anything?” John challenged, ignoring how his heart had jumped to the top of his throat at the mere mention of the word _lifeguard_.

“You took an interest in Sherlock,” Sarah said casually. “And we all know you don’t just let your interests go.”

“You’re ridiculous,” John laughed. But he made a mental note to talk to Nichole at lunch anyway.

                                                                                                *

Mike and John put their campers to sleep at ten, and Nichole showed up at eleven with a chair and a book.

“Thanks so much, Nichole,” John said as she unfolded her chair outside the door of the bunk.

She smiled up at him, sitting down. “Not a problem. Just be back by twelve, I wanna get some sleep.”

“Of course,” Mike promised and they ran down the main road to the parking lot. Two white vans sat parked with a bunch of counselors hanging out around them. John spotted Sarah, chatting to Sally, one of the assistants in the nurse’s shack.

He also spotted the lifeguards. They tended to travel together, all tall, well built, and very tanned. It only took John a minute to realize pale, thin Sherlock was not among them.

“We ready to go?” Sarah asked, spotting John.

“One sec,” John said, turning back around. He had no idea why, but he wanted Sherlock to be there. _You want to be his friend. It makes sense._ “I’ll be right back.” He ran from the parking lot back into camp. He was not sure where on earth he was going, or what he even planned on doing, but he found Sherlock anyway.

The boy was sitting on a bench outside the dining hall, reading something big and bulky by the light from the windows. He looked up at the sound of John’s footsteps and started, surprised.

“Hey,” John panted, smiling at Sherlock with his hands on his thighs, breathing out. “A bunch of us are going to ASDA. You wanna come?”

Sherlock stared at him. “You want me to come with you?” he asked, utterly confused.

“Yeah,” John said, standing up. “It’ll be fun. Chance to get out.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow as though sizing John up. John could understand why Jamie had wanted to hook up with the boy. He wasn’t just good-looking, he was far too sexual for his own good.

Wordlessly, Sherlock stood and closed his book. “One second, let me put this back in my bunk,” he said and John grinned.

Ten minutes later, the two boys ran down to the vans. The lifeguards looked up in surprise at Sherlock, John guessed they had invited him along from the beginning, but said nothing as everyone climbed into the vans and drove the twelve minute drive into town.

Sherlock sat next to John, thighs crushed against each other, and the pale boy was like a furnace, hot against John’s leg. John turned to him.

“So Sherlock, where are you from?” he asked, making conversation.

“London,” Sherlock told him and John smiled.

“Me too,” he said, leaning in. “Where in London?”

“Mayfair,” Sherlock said and John stared at him.

“Cor, that’s posh,” John whistled. “You go to school there?”

Sherlock shook his head, looking down uncomfortably. “No, I dorm at Eton.”

John understood immediately. “I guess you’re really smart,” he said gently, trying not to stare. Sherlock might have been the poshest person in all of Camp Baker. “I mean,” he corrected himself, “I know you’re smart. You see everything.”

Sherlock seemed to flush at the praise. “Thank you,” he said and thank the merciful god they were parking outside ASDA because it was bordering on awkward territory.

The teens jumped out of the van, walking through the mostly-empty parking lot to the store. It got really dark, so far from the main city, and John could count the stars if he felt so inclined.

“Sherlock, I heard you hooked up with Jamie Kurith,” one of counselors, john thought he might be a waiter, called over, smirking with a few of his friends.

“Don’t talk Anderson, you lower the IQ of the whole store,” Sherlock quipped. He leaned closer to John to whisper, “And this is ASDA. Some of these people can’t afford to lose anything.”

John snickered, and Sherlock smiled at him. It made John’s skin feel hot and if he didn’t figure out what it was about Sherlock that made him feel like a teenage girl soon, he was going to hit something.

“Well, did you?” Anderson pressed, his gaze flickering to where John laughed.

“Anderson, I understand your need to live vicariously, since the chances of you having any form of dating success are about as high as your chances of passing your A levels,” Sherlock sighed and John bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. “But kindly stay out of my business.”

Anderson glared at him. “Freak,” he muttered and John turned quickly to Sherlock to see how the boy reacted. But Sherlock’s face was impassive, not even raising an eyebrow. He simply walked faster, heading into the brightly lit store.

“Hey,” John said, sprinting to catch up. “You wanna shop with me?”

Sherlock turned to him. “Might as well, I don’t need anything,” he said casually but it didn’t take a genius to figure out the boy was grateful.

“Alright, I need bug spray,” John said as they walked down the huge halls of items. “And food. God, camp food sucks.”

“Do you want something from me?” Sherlock asked suddenly and John froze.

“What?” he said, not understanding.

“You’ve been nice to me for the past two days. You invited me to shop with you, you approached me at the bonfire, I’m asking what you want from me,” Sherlock said, the very picture of unconcerned.

John honestly could not believe his ears. He knew Sherlock was mysterious, a bit cool, and the newfound interest of every girl counselor in camp. But right now to John, all he was was sad.

“I don’t want anything from you,” John said, watching him. “I hoped we could be friends.”

Sherlock met his gaze. “Friends,” he said carefully, as if testing the word.

“Yep,” John smiled, trying to ignore the way that made his heart ache.

“I don’t have friends,” Sherlock said, as though it was obvious. As though it was only natural. As though he was okay with it.

“Well, you do now,” John said and he could almost hear the gears in Sherlock’s head churning. And then the boy smiled and John felt like his whole body was on fire. It made his stomach flip and his head think nasty things. It filled his mind with pictures of him pushing Sherlock against a shelf in ASDA and kissing him  senseless. Of dragging Sherlock back to his bed in the bunkhouse, damning his kids to hell, and snogging him until he begged for mercy,

And then it hit John like a ton of bricks. _I like Sherlock._ And he couldn’t, for the life of him, be arsed to care that he was a bloke.

He probably would have kissed him, right then and there and damned the consequences, if the teen hadn’t said, “You needed something, right?”

“Right,” John smiled, suddenly more at peace now that he understood the feeling he got in the pit of his stomach every time the lifeguard even looked at him. “Let’s do that.”

They roamed the halls of ASDA together, throwing a collection of food and sprays into a bag. Sherlock stole something from John’s cart. John dutifully chased him down the halls, yelling at him. They threw pillows at each other in the bedding section. John convinced the thin boy to buy some canned vegetables. And, at 11:45, they climbed back into the vans and drove back to camp.

“Are you aware that Sarah likes you?” Sherlock asked him as they drove up the bumpy road to camp.

John stared at him. He hadn’t been thinking about Sarah at all. “Are you sure?’ he asked.

“When she spoke to you, her hands were in her pockets- forced casualness. You can see a little flutter in her breathing, that means an elevated pulse rate. And her pupils dilated, just a bit, when she was staring at you while we were checking out,” Sherlock explained from memory, not even pausing to think.

“Brilliant,” John smiled warmly. “You are absolutely brilliant.”

Sherlock stumbled over the compliment, but kept going. “Are you interested in her?”

“No,” John said honestly, not breaking his gaze. “I have my eye on somebody else.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as the genius put two and two together. “Oh,” he said, slightly breathless, and then the vans pulled into camp. They opened the doors and all the counselors jumped out, hugging each other good night and heading back to their bunks.

“I have to go,” John said and Sherlock nodded, still staring at him as though not quite believing him real. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said and John turned to run up the hill with Mike, oblivious to Sherlock’s gaze that followed him until he was out of sight.

 


	3. I Want You (She's So Heavy)

John woke up the next morning feeling slightly groggy and quite a bit uncomfortable. It took him a minute to remember his stunning realization from last night, and then he smirked. It wasn’t as if he’d never liked blokes before, and besides, this was camp. Camp didn’t count, as a general rule.

“Boys, get up!” John crowed, jumping out of bed. Anyway, he continued his train of thought as he helped rouse his kids and shuffle them to the bathroom, it wasn’t like he had a shot. The boy had already turned down two people, three according to Sarah’s count. He had as good a chance as he would with Anderson.

They sat down in the dining hall, pulling out benches and pouring cereal. John took a schedule from a passing counselor and scanned it quickly. He couldn’t pretend his heart didn’t lodge itself in his throat when he saw the word _Swim_ for their third activity.

“What do we have first?” Mike asked as John flagged down a waiter and handed him the empty bug-juice pitcher with a smile.

“Sports,” John said, glancing down at the schedule. He’d stopped reading after swim. “Then baking.”

“The boys will love that,” Mike smirked and John smiled back. They both knew their kids would just end up eating the raw dough. There would be a line of tummy-aches by lunch.

Third activity rolled around sooner than John had expected, and the sun was shining mercilessly as the B221 boys ran down the hill to the lake. John and Mike followed close behind, and John could see the lifeguards coming out to take the kids to get lifejackets and swimming out to take spots in the lake.

John spotted a swatch of curly black hair in the middle of the lake and smiled at the sight of Sherlock sitting cross-legged on a waveboard by the slide. John lifted one hand and waved. The boy hesitated a second, as though unsure John was waving at him, before tentatively waving back.

With the kids happily swimming out to the lake toys, John settled in the gazebo with Mike and prepared to wait out the activity. They were twenty minutes in, Mike in the middle of telling John about one of the baking counselors who he was into, when a scream came from the middle of the lake.

John and Mike ran out to the shore. The lifeguard on the dock, a tall boy named Riley, was on his walkie-talkie.

“Talk to me Sherlock, what’s going on?” Riley called and John could see Sherlock on his waveboard paddling over to Harry, who held onto the rock climbing landing rope with one hand and his leg with the other. The black-haired teen took out a walkie in a water-proof bag and his voice, distorted and staticy, came over the radio.

“Injury on one of the hooks. Non-spinal, I’m bringing him in,” Sherlock’s voice said as they watched him lift the boy gently onto his board and paddle him back in.

“George, take over Sherlock’s position,” Riley instructed over the radio and a boy in a kayak rowed over to stay where Sherlock just was. Riley blew the whistle and picked up the megaphone to call out, “You can keep swimming,” as Sherlock and Harry pulled into the small sandbar.

Harry had a rope burn on his leg and a cut that started bleeding slowly as they left the water. Sherlock helped him up, an arm around his waist, and bent down.

“Can you walk?” he checked and Harry nodded, face pained. Sherlock helped the boy limp into the shack. John turned to Mike and, after a wordless conversation, John ran after Sherlock into the shed while Mike stayed by the dock.

Sherlock was sitting Harry down on a chair. As John came in, he looked up and nodded. John took it as a sign to stand next to Harry and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” John asked gently and Harry nodded. “Good. Now you’ll have a cool story to tell at dinner,” John smiled and Harry gave him a watery smile back.

Sherlock came back with a med kit and knelt by Harry’s leg. He looked up to meet Harry’s eyes.

“This is going to hurt,” he said honestly and Harry nodded, taking John’s hand. John squeezed it tight as Sherlock wiped the cut with antiseptic and Harry hissed, biting his lip.

“I know you want a scar, to impress that girl in G232, but don’t pick at this as it scabs,” Sherlock cautioned as he spread bacitracin on the cut and started to wrap it in gauze. “It could get infected.”

Harry stared at him, amazed. “How did you know about Kelly?” he asked, shocked.

John smiled warmly at Sherlock. “He sees everything,” John told him. Sherlock looked over to meet John’s gaze and that familiar heat filled his body, settling in the pit of his stomach, and his blood all seemed to rush south. Never mind the child in the room.

Sherlock gazed at him with heavy eyes. “Are you okay to walk?” he asked Harry, not looking away from John.

Harry nodded, oblivious to the wordless exchange of dirty thoughts the two counselors were having above his head.

“Go sit in the gazebo with your counselor till the activity is over,” Sherlock instructed, getting up. “You don’t want to get that thing wet for the next six hours.

Harry stood, limping to the shack door, and Sherlock followed him, helping him down the steps. Harry walked carefully to the gazebo, and John started towards the door, when Sherlock walked back inside, closed the shack door, and drew the bolt.

“What’s going on?” John asked stupidly, watching Sherlock lock the shed door from the inside and turn around. His eyes locked on John like a lion stalking a zebra, and he stalked John further back into the shed.

John felt crowded, back against the wooden wall. Rescue boards and lifeguard tubes stood on either side of him, and Sherlock loomed above him, eyes feral. He was still wet, lake water dripping off him in slow rivulets, and John felt far too hot.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Sherlock said, eyes near devouring him, and John wanted nothing more than to know what Sherlock tasted like.

“Um, okay-“ John tried but he was cut off as Sherlock slid one hand around his hip and put the other one on the wall behind John’s head, trapping him. And then his mouth descended on John’s and everything faded because _god, that’s lovely._

Sherlock kissed him nice and clean for a total of five seconds before he nipped at John’s bottom lip, demanding entrance, and John opened for him, moaning slightly as Sherlock’s tongue slipped inside, rubbing against his own and sending chills down his spine.

John reached up a hand to wrap around the nape of Sherlock neck, fisting in his hair and pulling the teen closer. They bodies pressed together, chest to chest, and John could feel his shirt slowly soaking through as Sherlock practically melted into him, devouring his mouth with a single-minded passion. He could hear the sounds of people laughing and splashing in the water not two feet away, and for some reason that made it all unbearably hotter, the idea that they could be caught any minute.

Sherlock’s wet leg came up between John’s thighs, grinding slowly into him, and the friction between wet and dry was beyond wonderful, it was _divine,_ and if John didn’t get more he was sure he would explode. He thrusted against Sherlock’s leg, once, then twice, and Sherlock pulled back to look at him in surprise.

“You’re dirtier than I expected,” Sherlock smirked and John growled, capturing Sherlock’s bottom lip in his own and kneading it raw. His second hand snuck itself under Sherlock’s shirt, trailing up wet skin to leave scratched down the side of the teen’s chest and Sherlock groaned, loud and satisfied, into John’s mouth, never breaking their kiss.

John’s hands trailed lower, skittering down Sherlock’s back and hovering over the waistband of his swim trunks. Sherlock ground against him and John was tempted to reach down and just squeeze, when Sherlock’s radio crackled to life in the corner and both boys shot apart at the noise.

“Sherlock? I need you on big dock,” Riley’s distorted voice ordered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Just cleaning up,” he sighed, his voice even, and John hated him. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down, and then turned and did the same for John, helping his hair from where it had slid against the shed wall. Sherlock’s hands felt cool in his hair, his fingers long and gentle and John could think of a million other places he wanted those hands.

“I’ll be behind the dining hall at two a.m.,” Sherlock said casually, straightening his shirt and pulling the walkie-talkie in its bag back over his neck. “See if you can get away.”

“Yeah, I’ll try-“ John said, stumbling to put words together, the memory of Sherlock hot and insistent up against him still bright in his mind. But Sherlock was already unlocking the door and striding out of the shed, walking down the steps to the lake dock. And John could only watch him go.

                                                                                                *

“Hey,” John asked Mike in a whisper as they helped their kids shower and climb into bed, “if I sneak out at like 2 am when the boys are all asleep, would you mind?”

Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you hooking up with someone?” he asked, voice low and glancing around to make sure none of the smaller children had heard.

“Shut up,” John growled and Mike grinned, elbowing him in the side.

“You are!” he crowed and John flushed. “Tell me everything.”

“No,” John insisted, turning to help Harry redo his bandages. “Now, will you be okay?”

“I’ll be asleep and fine,” Mike laughed. He waited until John had carefully tied the bandages and Harry had hobbled away before saying, “But you know counselor curfew is at one.”

John nodded. The camp liked its entire staff to be in bed by one, so they’d have the energy to deal with their kids in the morning. “I’ll just have to run and pray,” John shrugged and Mike only shook his head at him, eyes still wide.

“Every year, John. How do you manage to get someone every year?” he laughed and John only shoved him playfully, laughing along.

“It’s my devilish good looks,” he excused and then headed out of the bathroom to tell the boys a story.

At two on the dot, John slid silently out of bed and padded to the bunk door. He opened it silently, mindful of the heavy snores echoing through his bunk, and let it close with a small noise. Camp Baker was utterly deserted, but John wasn’t deceived. He knew patrols went around every hour or so to make sure counselors were actually adhering to the curfew.

He crept along to the Dining Hall, recognizing just how very ridiculous this all was, before ducking behind it.

“Sherlock?” he called out into the darkness. He’d only waited a minute before hands grabbed him, shoving him up against the side of the building. He didn’t even have a second to let out a noise of protest before there were lips against his, hot and insistent, and he gave up on protesting entirely.

Fingers, long and elegant, threaded themselves through his hair, tugging it to bare John’s neck, and then John had to bite his lip to keep from crying out as an incredibly deft mouth left bruises up and down his skin.

“Sherlock, my kids-“ he tried to protest but Sherlock silenced him by letting one hand drift down, leaving scratches down John’s back, and John arched into him, begging for more pressure. He could feel every point of contact between them even better in the near-blinding darkness; Sherlock’s hip against his, their chests pressed against each other, Sherlock’s fingers in his hair and on his back-

And then Sherlock was gone, pulling back, and John searched for him in the darkness. He found the fuzzy outline of his head in front of his own, hair a careful collection of messy curls, breaths coming out in small pants, and it thrilled to him realize Sherlock was loving this just as much as he was.

“Well, that’s one way to say hello,” John laughed and Sherlock let out a small snicker, resting his forehead against John’s.

“I have wanted to do that since I first saw you that day in the shack,” Sherlock whispered, but it came out in a rumble so low and deep, it ought to have been in a porno.

“By all means, don’t let me stop you,” John whispered back and he couldn’t see, but he knew instinctively Sherlock was grinning at him in the darkness.

“We only have a few minutes,” Sherlock said quickly, and then his cold hands were under John’s shirt, brushing against skin. “The staff patrols behind the dining hall every half hour.”

“I would ask how you even know that,” John whispered, shaking his head in pride, “but we’ve already established you know everything.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Sherlock demanded, but John knew the teen was smiling. So he kissed Sherlock, hard, insistent, and with every ounce of passion he had in his arsenal, flipping them so that it was Sherlock’s back that thudded against the wall, Sherlock’s hand that had no choice but to grasp weakly at his shirt, pulling him closer, Sherlock’s tongue that he drew into his mouth, sucking at with such suggestiveness, it made the lifeguard gasp, open mouthed, into John.

“Shame we don’t have more time,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips before licking at his tongue obscenely, sucking it lightly. “The things we could do…”

“Oh dear god,” Sherlock gasped out and John laughed softly, pressing their mouths together once more in an almost-sweet kiss. Almost sweet because, as they kissed, John reached down to grab Sherlock’s arse and squeeze.

“How much longer do we have?” John pressed, letting his hips snap against Sherlock’s and the boy struggled to speak against his own hushed moans.

“Five minutes,” he gasped out and then John smirked. He knew Sherlock couldn’t see it in the darkness, but he knew the other boy felt it from the way his breath hitched.

“Can you come in five minutes?” John challenged and Sherlock nearly keened beneath him, fingers digging deep into John’s shoulders to stay up.

“I might just come right now,” he groaned and John took that as a challenge accepted. He reached down, fumbling in the darkness for a minute, before he popped Sherlock’s ridiculously tight pants open, and let his fingers brush against Sherlock’s clothed erection, prompting a small sob from the teen.

“John, if you want me coming fast, don’t you dare tease me,” Sherlock gasped out and John smiled, kissing him.

“You had your turn to dominate in the shed,” he reminded the boy and he felt his own ears flush at the memory. “Now it’s my turn.”

It took him only three minutes to reduce Sherlock to a puddle of pure need, begging against him as he came, muffled by John’s shirt in his mouth. The final two were spent trying to clean up as best they could, and kissing each other until john could feel his own lips, swollen and red, start to bruise.

“I should get back,” John whispered and Sherlock nodded.

“But what about-“ the boy pressed, not oblivious to John’s own erection pressed hard against his thigh.

"No time," John protested in whispers and then kissed Sherlock hard. "Next time, alright?"

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath. "I'll hold you to your word," he teased, smiling against John's mouth. He stepped back a pace to look the unassuming counselor up and down. _Looks can be so decieving._ " I never predicted this from you,” he admitted, voice uneven.

“Even geniuses can be wrong,” John promised, before kissing Sherlock again. They gave themselves two more seconds before running off to their separate bunks, grinning like madmen, where John made good on his promise and Sherlock took his second shower of the day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're gonna try Monday/Thursday updates. See you soon :)


	4. I Saw Her Standing There

John had the distinct feeling that if there was a god, he was laughing at him right now. _Swim_ smiled up at him from the morning schedule and he realized he wouldn’t even be given a day to recover from the hurricane of sexual attraction that was Sherlock Holmes.

“You wanna get changed too?” Mike asked him as they helped their kids collect their towels from the clothes line outside the bunks.

John stumbled a second before handing Jordan his towel. “Sorry, you wanna go swimming with them?”

“It’s hot,” Mike shrugged, and it was, criminally hot. Flies had been wilting on their windowsill all morning.

Counselors were not only allowed but encouraged to swim with their kids, help keep them under control. But John had a feeling that if he went in that lake, he really wasn’t going to be focusing on his kids. And yet, the idea was ridiculously appealing.

“Sure,” John laughed, picking out swim trunks. Maybe he could drown. Specifically near Sherlock’s area. _Now you’ve officially lost it, Watson_.

The kids were in the lake without so much as a whoop, desperate to feel some semblance of cool. John and Mike followed along more subdued, smiling at the head lifeguard Greg, taking lifejackets and going in.

“This is so much better!” Mike crowed, splashing John with abandon.

John smiled at him, reveling in the cool water. “Have to say Mike, you’re a genius.”

“Oh, stop,” Mike laughed but John’s eyes had already flashed to the giant blowup slide in the middle of the lake. There, perched on top like some ridiculous windswept bird, was Sherlock, helping the kids slide down safely.

“I’m gonna go on the slide,” John shouted over to Mike, who was heading out to the trampoline. His co-counselor nodded, swimming out, and John swam over to the slide ladder.

“Hey John!” one of his kids, James, waved frantically at him from atop the slide. “Watch me go down!”

“Sure thing,” John said, swimming back a pace to watch. At the mention of John, Sherlock’s head swiveled towards the water and stayed rooted there. John could feel his cheeks go hot, despite the cool water, as Sherlock’s gaze never wavered.

“Um, can I go down?” James asked him timidly and Sherlock snapped back to reality, turning back to James with a nod.

“Now cross your ankles and hold your life vest, “ Sherlock instructed and James went down with a loud cry.

“Did you see me, John?” he asked as soon as he surfaced and John gave him a big thumbs-up.

“Course I did, great job James,” John encouraged and James beamed as he swum away towards the climbing walls. John climbed up the side to the top of the slide, which had mercifully emptied with James, to find Sherlock still staring at him.

“Do you hate your kids?” Sherlock asked him as soon as his head cleared the top of the slide. He was the very picture of casual, sitting back against the wall of the slide, legs crossed beneath him, and John could vividly remember what that hair felt like between his fingers.

“What?” John asked a bit stupidly as Sherlock’s eyes traveled down his body, taking in his shirtlessness, his tan, and the general _wetness_ of the poor counselor. John had the distinct impression that somewhere in that great mind of his, Sherlock was undressing him, pulling off his swim trunks and John couldn’t _breathe_.

“I said, do you want them to drown?” Sherlock said, eyes settling somewhere near John crotch and the counselor swallowed. “Because there’s no way I’m watching the water with you here, in that.”

John could feel the wind cooling the drops of water on his skin. He should have been shivering. Instead, he’d never felt so hot, or so flustered, by anyone or anything in his life. Sherlock’s eyes never left his trunks, no shame at all, and John could almost feel phantom fingers on his skin.

“Um,” he tried, struggling to form complete sentences, or even words.

“What are you doing tonight?” Sherlock asked him suddenly and John found himself able to focus, now that those gray eyes had moved up to meet his own.

“My kids have a movie in the dining hall,” John told him, sitting down by the slide so they were on the same level. “I’ll be there with them.”

“What movie?” Sherlock asked and John raised one eyebrow. He highly doubted the incredibly posh boy would enjoy whatever movie the camp wanted to show its kids.

“Nothing public school,” John teased and while Sherlock didn’t crack a smile, his eyes twinkled with unshed laughter. John was getting better at reading the strange boy’s numerous expressions. This one practically screamed _feral_.

“Wonderful,” Sherlock said, smiling now, and that smile made John shiver despite the heat. “See you then.” And then, without any pomp or ceremony, he pushed John down the slide.

John hit the water with an almighty splash and a yell of “Sherlock!” As he surfaced, he looked up to see the lifeguard laughing mercilessly, clutching at his sides, and the only thing that kept John from giving him a rather undignified two-finger salute was his kids swimming around him, laughing just as loud.

John gave a little mock-bow, recovering quickly, and the boys laughed, clapping. Sherlock grinned down at him and suddenly John couldn’t wait for movie night

                                                                                                *

The dining hall had been rearranged with rows facing the back where a screen and a projector sat ready to show whatever movie the camp decided on. John’s kids settled themselves in the second row next to the other bunks of their age-group and John went with Mike to sit on either side on them, John all alone on the left side.

The lights went down and the movie started. It was a mystery of some kind, and John suddenly found himself enthralled. His kids however, weren’t nearly as excited and he spent the first twenty minutes just getting them to shut up and watch. By the time he’d settled back in his chair, the movie was near midway and there was a chair next to his.

“You’re right,” Sherlock smirked as he sat down and John spun on him in the near-darkness.

“Jesus, warn a man,” John breathed out, careful to whisper. “And what do you mean I was right?”

“Hardly public school,” Sherlock grinned and John grinned back. They watched the movie in complete silence for two minutes before Sherlock reached out a hand to point to the servant.

“He did it,” the pale lifeguard whispered to John, for once mindful of the people around him.

John stared at the servant. He’d liked the man, by far John’s last suspect. “How could you possibly know that?” John hissed back. “You just got here.”

Sherlock sighed and John knew he was rolling his eyes. “His trousers. Look at his trousers. Stainless. No servant has trousers like that unless they’re new. And why would he have to buy new ones unless he’d had something incriminating on the old ones. Something like blood-splatter.”

John turned to glare at him. “Did you just ruin the movie?” he asked, not even close to angry.

Sherlock laughed quietly. “Yes.”

“Hate you,” John groaned, sinking down into his seat. “I liked this movie.”

“I do apologize,” Sherlock offered. “I’ll try and make it better.”

“Yeah, I don’t see how-“ John started and then stopped. Sherlock’s hand was on his thigh. No, not on his thigh like a dead fish but _on_ his thigh and moving, drawing tiny circles with his thumb on the inside.

“What are you doing?” John got out evenly as his pulse practically raced and all his blood rushed to where it really wasn’t welcome.

Sherlock smirked at him. “Making it better.”

“No you’re not.”

“Well you certainly can’t say it’s not more entertaining,” Sherlock offered and his fingers drifted higher, inches from where John was suddenly getting interested.

“Sherlock, my kids are not more than five meters away,” John hissed at him, but he didn’t move Sherlock’s hand. The genius seemed to take that lack of action as proof the counselor was enjoying this far too much and continued, leaving goosebumps up the inside of John’s thigh, touching everything except what begged to be touched.

“Then I suggest you go to the bathroom,” Sherlock said evenly, _the prat_ , “or this is going to get rather traumatizing for them.”

 And then he let his fingers brush against John’s cock and John jumped up. He caught Mike’s eye across the hall and mouthed _bathroom_. Mike nodded and John rushed from the room, pointedly ignoring how Sherlock smirked at him and his poor hobble.

The camp bathrooms were tiny. The stalls were near miniscule. But Sherlock followed John to the bathroom not a minute after and shoved him unceremoniously into a stall.

“I do believe I owe you a favor,” Sherlock breathed out, fingers already working at John’s belt.

John threaded his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and pulled up so that the genius was forced to meet his eye. “First thing’s first,” John growled and then kissed Sherlock, hard, insistent and incredibly filthy.

“Do you tease me because it gets you excited or because you’re a sadistic bastard?” John asked as their mouths crashed together again and _again_ a frantic battle of teeth and tongues.

“Both,” Sherlock gasped out and smiled as his fingers, which had been busy between them, undid John’s belt and buttons. He tugged John’s trousers off, letting them fall to the filthy floor and then looked up at John. His eyes were wild, pupils blown, and John had never seen something so attractive.

“Get on the toilet,” Sherlock instructed. “This is going to be tight.”

John immediately saw where he was going. “Jesus Christ,” he begged before arranging himself around the toilet so Sherlock had room to fall to his knees, fingers digging sharp in John’s hips, the pale boy’s back pressed hard against the stall door.

“Can you stay quiet?” Sherlock asked but he didn’t wait for a reply as he wrapped his lips around John and the boy bit his lip to keep from crying out.

John was no expert at blowjobs. He was only seventeen, for god’s sake, and you could hardly expect him to be some sort of sex prodigy. But there was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock was. As the boy’s tongue did things John was sure he couldn’t do if you gave him a million years to practice, John had to thread his fingers painfully through Sherlock’s hair to stop himself from screaming.

“God, where the hell did you learn that?” John moaned, head thrown back, as Sherlock teeth grazed the underside of his cock.

“Public school,” Sherlock teased and then he was back, his mouth pure sin, and John knew this wasn’t going to last very long.

“Shit, I’m gonna-” he warned but the boy stayed on and John couldn’t breathe as he realized Sherlock meant to swallow.

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” John groaned, arching into Sherlock’s mouth, and then his vision whited out as he came, fist stuffed in his mouth to keep himself quiet.

Sherlock moved him gently, letting him slump against the stall wall as he tried to re-orient himself, and then opened the toilet so he could spit. John ran a hand through his hair, trying to remember how to breathe, and Sherlock stood up to meet him, wiping his mouth on his the back of his hand.

“Not bad?” he offered with a smirk.

“You’re awfully smug for a man who just had a cock in his mouth,” John shot back, still slumped against the wall, breath coming in pants.

Sherlock shrugged. “I am a genius,” he pointed out and John kissed him, chaste and soft, on the lips.

“What would you like?” John asked as his senses returned, fingers reaching out. They hooked through Sherlock’s belt loops and tugged, pulling the boy close enough their hipbones bumped, sharp and painful. “I’d do just about anything right now.”

Sherlock smiled at him and if John didn’t know better, he’d say it was fond. “Not tonight,” he excused, despite how hard he seemed pressed against John’s leg. “Tonight was your turn.”

“We don’t need to take turns,” John laughed, resting his forehead against the other boy’s.

Sherlock grinned. “No. But you know what they say. Good things come to those who wait,” he said and John let the lifeguard kiss him, quickly and gently.

“I hardly know you,” John said suddenly, still sharing breaths in the small cubical.

“That’s quite alright, no one does,” Sherlock offered and then he opened the stall door and glanced around. He signaled John to wait and then left, the door swinging shut behind him.

John looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, covered in paint handprints and names written in black ink. His face was flushed, his hair a mess of curls. He spent a minute trying to straighten himself before giving up and walking out of the bathroom and back to the movie.

Sherlock had been right. The servant was the murderer.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mega points to whoever's been getting my chapter titles ;)


	5. Hide Your Love Away

John felt ridiculously light. In the past two weeks, he and Sherlock had near devoured each other, stealing far more than just kisses whenever they could. It hadn’t been even close to easy, trapping each other in bathroom stalls and sneaking out at two a.m. to snog furiously behind the dining hall. But somehow they’d managed.

John thought he understood the parameters of their relationship. They were friendly to each other in the light of day. All the other counselors knew bright, amiable John had somehow managed to crack the odd new kid’s shell and that they were friends. Sherlock stopped by their table in the dining hall some afternoons to say hi. John waved at Sherlock in the lake from the gazebo when his kids had swim. They went on trips to ASDA together. But they certainly weren’t _out_ about the more physical side of their relationship. No holding hands in public. No stray kisses. Not so much as a wink.

Which is why John was fully unprepared for Sherlock showing up at the door to his cabin at 10pm two weeks after the blowjob in the bathroom.

“John,” Jordan called out over the general din that pervaded B221 during bedtime preparations. “Someone just knocked on our door.”

“Go answer it then,” John instructed with a sigh as he watched Sam brush his teeth. He was fully confident his kids wouldn’t so much as touch a toothbrush unless he stood in the bathroom with them.

There was a brief scuffle at the door and then Jordan’s voice rang over the shouts of his kids. “John, one of the lifeguards is on our porch.”

“Wait, what?” John said, spinning around. There was no question which lifeguard would come make a nightly visit to B221. Riley certainly didn’t need anything from him.

He left his kids in the bathroom and climbed over the rather sickening mess that decorated the floor of the cabin before coming to the door. Jordan stood there in his pyjamas, open door held in his hands, staring at a very uneasy Sherlock Holmes. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” John asked. He imagined he looked a sight, hair in wet tangles, in only a tank, covered in his kids’ toothpaste and blocking out the sight of thirteen boys scrambling to get in pyjamas.

The lifeguard however, was the very picture of cool. Black hair a sculpted mess, white t-shirt hanging loose against his stomach and hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Is now a bad time?” he asked casually, glancing inside.

“A bit, yeah,” John said breathlessly, focusing on Sherlock’s eyes and not the stretch of pale neck exposed by the low collar. “Just putting them to bed. You wanna wait on the back porch?”

“Not a problem,” Sherlock said breezily. “I simply wanted to show you something was all. I’ll expect you in ten?”

John glanced back at his cabin. James was standing on the top of a bunk bed, raining down pillow feathers on Sam who was beating Harry mercilessly with his still-wet toothbrush.

“Make it fifteen,” he cautioned and Sherlock nodded as he closed the bunk door. “Alright boys, it is time for bed!” he yelled, walking back into the bunk and he could’ve sworn he heard a snicker from the other side of the wooden door.

Twenty minutes later the B221 boys were tucked in bed and relatively silence. John left Mike with a frantic sorry and ran around the cabin to the back porch where Sherlock waited, back leaning up against the wooden wall.

“What’s up?” John asked, tugging at the sweatshirt he’d pulled on as he’d left the bunk.

“You’re really good with them,” Sherlock said in lieu of an answer, detaching himself from the wall. “I heard the story. Oliver Cromes sounds incredibly exciting.”

John flushed at the thought of the genius listening in on his children’s story. “Thanks,” he mumbled out and Sherlock grinned at him, walking over.

“Don’t be embarrassed. You are a rather good writer,” he said and then brushed past John, walking down the gravel road. “Now keep up and follow me.”

John stumbled over the compliment but did as instructed, following the lifeguard down the road. He realized as they turned past the forest that they were heading towards the lake and he jogged to catch up to Sherlock’s long, easy strides.

“Why are we going to the lake?” John asked, eyes darting around. There were a few counselors around, curfew wasn’t for a few hours, but the path to the lake was relatively empty. No one was stupid enough to risk being caught swimming in the lake at night.

“And here I thought you had somewhat of an intellect,” Sherlock sighed and then reached into his sweatshirt pocket and tugging out a crumpled ball of fabric that he threw at John without so much as a by-your-leave. “Put that on. It might be a bit small, but more’s the pleasure.”

John uncrumpled the ball to realize it was swimming trunks. “We’re going night swimming?” he near squeaked out.

“Do keep your voice down,” Sherlock cautioned and suddenly they were by the lake. It spread out, still as glass, like a great beast and it reflected the night stars like a mirror. John felt his breath catch at the sheer beauty of it but Sherlock was already tugging off his shirt and tossing it aside.

“Get changed,” he ordered and John stood there awkwardly, unsure of where to go. “Oh for goodness sakes, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Sherlock reminded him and, true as that was, John felt reluctant to simply strip in front of the other teen.

“I’ll turn around, will that help?” Sherlock offered and John nodded. Sherlock turned and then John finally gained the ability to speak, free of those miles of milky skin.

“Sherlock, if we’re caught we’ll be fired for this,” John hissed, tugging off his shirt even as he protested.

“Relax, I’m a lifeguard,” Sherlock reminded him, unconcerned. “Besides, you didn’t strike me as the type opposed to breaking a few rules.”

John pulled on Sherlock’s trunks. They were a bit small, hugging his arse in an uncomfortable manner, but all Sherlock did as he turned around was grin ferally at the counselor. He hid their clothing beneath a rock, his eyes never quite leaving John’s body and then he stood up, looking him dead on.

“Come on John,” he urged, voice low and deep and it sounded to John like the vocal incarnation of sex itself. “It’ll be _fun_.”

The fact that that was all it took, really, to get John into the lake was a sign he needed to sort out his priorities. But the water was fresh and cold and he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped as he flipped out onto his back. They weren’t wearing lifejackets, those were still locked in the shack, and he knew this was a colossally stupid and incredibly dangerous idea. That only made it better.

“Quiet,” Sherlock whispered, swimming over. He swam as gracefully as he walked, gliding through the water like a dancer. “Once we reach the trampoline we can be louder, we’re too close to shore.”

John nodded and turned to swim towards the trampoline, a large spherical thing about halfway out. They never said it aloud but it was clear they were racing. John was a strong swimmer but Sherlock had the upper hand by far, a longer glide and more experience. He reached the trampoline mere seconds before John and reveled in them, climbing up the ladder to flop dramatically on the springy surface.

John settled next to his, stretched out and gazing skyward. They were still silent as they turned to each other lazily and kissed, letting it progress naturally into an all-out snog, John on all fours above the pale lifeguard, watching him twist and whimper beneath his careful ministrations.

“Hush,” John laughed into Sherlock’s open mouth, peeling him apart with his tongue, Sherlock raising his head to meet John’s lips, stealing kisses where he could. “They’ll hear you.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock brushed off but he quieted, nudging John to slide off him. Unoffended, John lay back down beside Sherlock, letting them settle into a comfortable silence. The stars shone brighter here, far brighter than they ever did behind the London smog, and John found the big dipper with ease, following it to the right to locate the North Star.

“Tell me about your family,” John said suddenly, arms crossed beneath his head and Sherlock turned to him in surprise. “I mean, you know all about mine. Only fair, really,” he offered and Sherlock lay back down, letting out one long breath.

“Not much to tell. Older brother, mother, father. Standard family model,” Sherlock said, not even bothering to look at him.

“Do you like them?” John asked and Sherlock chuckled, a low and soft sort of sound that made John’s heart hurt for indiscernible reasons.

“I abhor them,” the boy replied, closing his eyes, . His lashes truly were too long for a boy’s. “Then again, I abhor most people, so that’s hardly surprising.”

“Why?” John asked, leaning back on his elbows to look at the boy. Sherlock could have been asleep, face soft and calm, breath even, eyes closed. Only his voice, constant and unaffected, confirmed he was not adrift in dreams.

“It’s common, isn’t it, for teenagers to feel like no one understands them,” Sherlock said, letting it fall like a sigh from his cupid-bow lips. “I am actually entitled to that prejudice. I am singular John, can you really tell me you have ever met anyone like me?”

John shook his head appropriately and Sherlock nodded. “Exactly. Rather hard for my parents to be sympathetic then, isn’t it?”

“And your brother?” John pushed and Sherlock’s eyes opened lazily, like a cat’s, blinking in the starlight till they landed on John and made him hot all over.

“Is an insufferably know-it-all with a plan to cause a cake shortage in Europe. So let’s forget him, shall we?” Sherlock offered and John found himself agreeing as Sherlock rolled over and straddled him, playing with his hair a minute before rolling his hips, wet friction causing sparks in John’s vision.

"You're taking your day off on Wednesday," Sherlock said silkily, looking down obscenely at John.

"Yeah, how did you know?" John asked, trying desperately not to get distracted by Sherlock's lower lip. He waited for an answer involving no less than his his hair, his clothes, and one of his wrists.

"Because, I'm taking my day off Wednesday," Sherlock smirked and John's eyes widened in the near darkness.

"You daft git," John grinned, rolling them over and straddling the genius himself. "How did you know?"

There was a sudden noise from onshore and Sherlock looked up. “Quickly,” he urged, pushing off John and sliding silently into the water. John followed him, a second behind, and Sherlock met his gaze before diving underwater. John could hardly see through the lake’s murk but he realized what Sherlock was doing and followed him, diving to surface underneath the trampoline.

There was a pocket of air between the water and the bottom on the trampoline and John and Sherlock shared it, treading water. It was miserably dark without any starlight to drift through.

“What’s-“ John tired but Sherlock silenced him with a hand over his mouth. The noise from onshore got louder and John realized it was a patrol, checking for any idiots who fancied a late-night dip.

“See anything?” a voice called out and another voice, closer to the lake, shouted back, “No.”

A flashlight graced its way over the lake and its beams touched the trampoline, but there was nothing to see. John and Sherlock held their breaths as the voices drifted away and as soon as it was quiet enough, Sherlock removed his hand from John’s mouth.

They made the mistake of looking at each other in the near-darkness and both teens burst into giggles.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John laughed silently into Sherlock’s shoulder and he could feel the teen grinning into his hair.

“Then we clearly do not get together enough,” the pale boy resolved and John grinned back.

They swam back to shore and quietly collected their clothes, pulling them on over wet bodies. John handed Sherlock back his wet bathing suit and Sherlock took it with a wink that left John thoroughly confused. Wet and squishing, they made their way back up the road and Sherlock walked John to his bunk.

“Thank you,” John said at the door. It was the first words they spoken to each other since the lake but neither had felt awkward in the silence.

“Oh believe me, it was my pleasure,” Sherlock smiled at him and they parted, John squishing into his dark and silent bunk. He showered quickly and climbed into bed, still grinning like a madman.

                                                                                         *

John was awoken in the morning to the sound of one of his kids puking their guts out.

“Oh Chris,” John sighed, rubbing the small boy’s back as he doubled over. “What did you eat?”

Chris was spared from answering by yet another bout of puke and John just rubbed his back, smoothing his hair away from his face.

“Take the kids to breakfast,” John told Mike over the stall door. “I’ll bring him to the nurse’s shack.”

Mike nodded and soon enough the bunk was empty save the sick boy and John. “Hey buddy, you feel well enough to walk to the nurse?” he asked and Chris nodded, retching as he tried to stand up. After yet another bout of sickness though, they stumbled over to the nurses’ shack. One of the nurses, Tammy, took one look at the green-faced boy and reached out.

“We’ll get him a room,” she assured John, turning to lead the boy further into the shack. “Will that be alright?” she directed at Chris and the sick boy nodded meekly.

“I’ll come around lunch to check on him,” John promised and Chris hugged him goodbye, an oddly touching gesture, before following Tammy to the back. John was turning to leave when he heard his name called across the shack.

“John!” a voice called and John tuned to find himself face to face with Sally, one of the nurse’s assistants. She was a friend of Sarah’s, he knew, but they’d never had much conversation.

“Hey Sally, what’s up?” John asked, leaning back.

Sally looked incredibly uncomfortable, not meeting his eye as she spoke. “You’ve been hanging out a lot with Sherlock, right?”

“Yeah,” John said, unsure of where she meant to go with this.

“Look, maybe this is none of my business,” the dark-skinned girl said quickly, “but you need to be careful with him.”

John stared at her a minute, “You’re right,” he said finally. “It is none of your business.”

“Wait,” she called out as he turned to leave and ran to stand next to John by the door. “Look, I was his friend for years. Well, as close as he gets to friends, really. Sherlock-“

She paused before going on. “We’re neighbors. I live two houses down from him in Mayfair. We used to hang out all the time, he tolerated me, you know?” and John did, and it hurt him like a knife.

“We stopped because, well,” John had never seen anyone look so uncomfortable and it twisted his stomach into knots. “Sherlock got involved in drugs. I mean, a lot of drugs. Cocaine mostly, but I think there might’ve been some heroin too.”

“So you abandoned him?” John said sharply and he hadn’t meant to attack the girl but she stepped back, not meeting his eye.

“I had no choice. He says these awful things when he’s sober, but high-“ she let out a breath. “It was abuse, really. I didn’t have a choice.”

John had absolutely no idea what to say. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he’d processed anything Sally had just said, it had all seemed to get lost after the _Sherlock-drugs_ bit.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said, not meaning it in the slightest and Sally had the good sense to look ashamed.

“Just, be careful, alright?” she urged and John found himself nodding before letting himself out of the nurse’s shack and walking down the road to breakfast. Suddenly, he didn’t feel like swimming today. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said no angst! Now look what I've done. I just can't stay away, can I? *sigh*


	6. Yesterday

For two days John avoided Sherlock like the plague. It wasn’t incredibly difficult, the boys didn’t have swim and Mike had been harping on John for leaving him alone with kids for far too many nights. But as Wednesday morning bloomed bright and vivid, he knew the universe had other, more pale and milky plans for him.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about what Sally had told him though. The thought of pure, clean, sharply outlined Sherlock reducing himself to nothing more than fuzz and brainwaves at the prick of a needle made him sick in ways he didn’t want to analyze. It took him a while to recognize the feeling that coiled in the pit of his stomach at the phrase _Sherlock, the drug addict_ until he realized it was anger.

What he was angry at, he wasn’t sure. It shouldn’t have been Sherlock, after all the boy hadn’t _lied_ to him. He was under no obligation to tell John anything about his past; they were hooking up for goodness sakes, not married. And yet John couldn’t help the tremor of pure, white anger that rolled through him as he wondered if Sherlock’s arms bore track marks and the realization that he’d never thought to look at them before.

But the world went on and on Wednesday morning, Mike, bless his soul, ushered the kids out of the bunk as quietly at fifteen fourth-graders could manage to let John sleep. And sleep John did, until the general _noisiness_ of camp drifted in through the bunk’s open windows. Groaning, he got up and stretched, padding down in his flip-flops and towel to the tiny showers in the back of the bunk. The water was cold, naturally, and John sighed as he set to sponging out soap and cleaning his body in the miniscule stall.

He blamed it on how tired and groggy he was. That was the only reasonable excuse as to why he didn’t hear the bunk door open or the sound of footsteps padding towards the shower, or even the tell-tale unzip of jeans. What he did hear, however, was the sound of the shower curtain being pushed aside by a glorious and very naked Sherlock Holmes.

“Jesus Christ-“ John swore as Sherlock clambered into the stall and it was all he could squeak out before Sherlock crowded him against the shower wall and kissed him breathless. Stunned, John could only open his mouth to let Sherlock in, thoroughly exploring him and it was Sherlock’s tongue alone that muffled the very pressing moans eking their way out of the poor counselor.

“Sherlock-“ John gasped as they pulled apart to breath, ragged and steamy in the cold water. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I understand the world can’t be quite as smart as me, but would it break your tiny mind John to just _observe_?” Sherlock sighed before shifting his focus to John’s neck, sucking bruising kisses into the soft flesh there before moving down to kiss John’s chest, sending jolts directly to his sorely confused cock.

John struggled to form words around the _so sinful_ things Sherlock was doing to his abused body and it took him nearly a minute of Sherlock lavishing his jaw and the skin behind his ear before he could get out, “Sherlock, if any of my kids walked into the bunk right now-“

“I’m well aware,” Sherlock purred and John had to grab onto the small soap holder with one shaking hand to keep himself upright as his knees went out from under him at that sound. “Luckily, you get off on that sort of thing.”

John wanted to protest that he most certainly did _not_ get off on the possibility of his kids being scarred for life by the sight of their counselor and a lifeguard pressed against each other but his rather treacherous cock was happily declaring just the opposite. With a self-satisfied smirk, Sherlock reached down to wrap one hand around both of them, aided by the soapy water, and John saw stars.

“How’s your day off going?” Sherlock asked and John groaned, letting his head sink into the space between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder as the lifeguard stroked them both lazily and mercilessly under the cold water.

“Fuck you,” John forced out as Sherlock’s ridiculously skilled fingers skimmed over the tip of his cock and he jolted, back pressed painfully into the handle.

“Hm, I rather hoped we’d wait a bit, but if you’d like to forge so far ahead,” Sherlock teased and _Jesus Christ_ why was he so good at this? Sherlock let one nail skim the underside of his cock and _shit_ John was going to come in a fucking camp shower.

Sherlock grinned down at him, the very picture of self-satisfied, and with a groan, John reached up to wind his fingers painfully through those black curls and tug down to kiss that smug face, sucking on Sherlock bottom lip as the lifeguard’s hand worked between them and John came with a muffled scream, biting down on Sherlock’s lip hard enough to draw blood. Sherlock followed, a simple, elegant shudder, and then collapsed against John’s naked chest.

“You kinky bastard,” John let out in a sigh and he could feel Sherlock grin into his hair.

“Mm, quite,” the taller teen agreed and that was it.

They washed each other off in silence and then wandered back into the bunk to dress. Sherlock slipped on the clothes he’d left littered on the bathroom floor, jeans and a white v-neck and John found some jeans that weren’t too dirty and a clean red t-shirt. Sherlock raised one perfect eyebrow at the color and John couldn’t be arsed to care.

“What are we doing?” he asked instead, turning to face Sherlock. Sally’s words rang in his head but as background noise now, barely surfacing, and he pushed them down with the same heavy-handed fuzziness Sherlock’s orgasm had left him with.

“I have someone who could drive us into town,” Sherlock offered lazily, lying on John’s bottom bunk, fingers playing idly with the chicken-wire of the bed above. “We could go to the cinema.”

The idea of the incredibly brilliant and easily bored teen sitting through a whole film with John in the dilapidated cinema that occupied the small town near the camp made John want to laugh. But Sherlock’s next words knocked the very breath out of him.

“If it gets boring I can suck you off in the back row,” he offered, not even looking at John and the counselor had to pause and wonder what all-powerful deity had cursed him with the trial that was Sherlock fucking Holmes.

“Let’s go,” John said stiffly and Sherlock smirked, swinging himself around and up with the grace of a ballet dancer. He winked at John like something out of a porno, and by the love of God did it make John sway, and then _sashayed_ out of the bunk. John couldn’t decide between tackling him right then and there and strangling him or straddling him. Instead, he pocketed his wallet and ran after the teen, cursing under his breath.

Sherlock ride turned out to be one of the nurse’s assistants who was going on a coffee run into town. John couldn’t, for the life of him, remember the poor boy’s name. Sherlock slid into the town car without so much as a sigh but John paused, hand on the door.

“Thank you,” he smiled and the boy, Tommy? Timmy? Sammy?, brushed it off, opening the driver’s side to sit down. John slid in besides Sherlock and they made the ten minute drive into town. The cinema bore the same look as the small town, shabby and broken in, with an almost depressing sort of air. The boys watched the car speed away as they stood in the shimmering summer heat before starting inside.

“How will we get back?” John asked as they stood in line. Was he supposed to pay for Sherlock’s ticket? Or would the posh boy want to pay for his? Was this even a date? Should they each buy their own tickets?

Sherlock shrugged, the very picture of indifference. “We’ll figure something out,” he offered and then approached the counter and asked for two tickets. John reached for his wallet but Sherlock shot him such a glare that he gently slid it back into his pocket. That answered that question.

The film was boring. John had never appreciated it more as Sherlock turned to face him in his seat and raised the armrest torturously slowly. It was a small cinema and basically empty, with only four other people in the second row. But John was not so easily pacified.

“Sherlock, we’ll get kicked out,” he hissed even as his body betrayed him and his legs spread wider to make room for the tall boy to reach down a hand and tug at his zipper.

“Perfect,” Sherlock cooed into his ear as he leaned over to lay one open-mouthed kiss on John’s neck that left the counselor weak in the knees. “I rather hate this film.”

“You’re gorgeous,” John sighed, giving up, and turned to face Sherlock, kissing him deeply. Sherlock’s hand didn’t move from its position but traced patterns up and down the inside of John’s thigh as they kissed, a slow dance of tongues and lips.

It may very well have been their first leisurely kiss since they’d met and John savored it, the offered blowjob quickly forgotten. He turned fully and tilted his head and Sherlock moaned appreciatively, prompting one very loud shush from the second row that they velmently ignored. Sherlock tasted like a mix of cinnamon and something else and John let himself fold into it.

He almost didn’t notice his own hands which had crept up and were running up and down the pale boy’s thin arms, eliciting small moans and smaller goosebumps. He didn’t notice until they ran over four small bumps and his brain caught up with him. _Track marks._

He wouldn’t have noticed them, wouldn’t have paid them the slightest bit of attention, if Sally had never spoken to him. But she had and now his brain readily supplied the unwanted images of Sherlock poised with a needle to his arm, sharp and stark and his breath caught in his throat as his fingers froze on Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock noticed, of course he noticed, and pulled back sharply. “John-“ he warned but John was already moving back too, eyes wide. He realized with a sudden jolt he hadn’t really believed Sally, hadn’t believed that such a brilliant mind could have let it waste away, until that very moment.

“I don’t-“ he stammered, watching the lifeguard with undisguised horror and Sherlock stood.

“Stop, John. It’s not your business,” he said stiffly and strode from the cinema without a backwards glance. John blinked a moment, gathering himself, before running out and following Sherlock into the cinema’s florescent lights. The boy walked out of the cinema and down the street, not pausing as John ran to catch up with him.

“Sherlock!” he called out and the lifeguard suddenly spun around, nearly nose to nose with John. His unfathomably eyes showed an unadulterated fury that had John near shaking.

“Who told you?” he asked sharply, like a knife cutting glass. “You wouldn’t have figured it out on your own. Someone told you.”

“Sally-“ John started softly and a look of complete betrayal and pain flashed across the lifeguard’s face before it was replaced with a self-deprecating smirk and those same angry eyes, clouded by rolling waves of pure hate. John had seen Sherlock direct that gaze at people rarely. He’d never thought it would be directed at him.

“Sally, of course,” Sherlock snipped, pacing now. He ran on shaking hand through his mess of curls, near tugging at it, and John wanted to hold him still and rock him but he was too scared to touch him. “What else did she tell you? That I’m incapable of human emotion? That I’m just using you?”

“She just said you’d…used,” John tried softly, hoping the violent boy would calm down. “I didn’t believe her until I-“

“Saw, yes,” Sherlock brushed off with that same ever-suffering look that made John feel incredibly small.

John couldn’t help the next question that tumbled from his lips. “Are you still?” he asked and immediately he knew it was the wrong thing to say and Sherlock turned on him with the most abusive look John had ever seen on a person, not since his father, and he could feel his stomach clench.

“It’s hardly your business now, is it?” Sherlock shot back, gazing at John with that same calculating gaze and John knew he was about to be ripped to shreds. “We’re just hooking up John, we’re not dating.”

“I didn’t-“ John tried, hoping to avoid the verbal abuse he could feel coming but it seemed it was unavoidable.

“Scared of me, are you?” Sherlock smirked and there was such pain in that small twisted smile that it took John’s breath away. “Scared of the crazy drug addict? Scared I’ll hit you?”

“I never said-“ John protested but Sherlock cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Body language John, you’ve flinched so many times, you nearly made it across the street,” Sherlock teased mercilessly and John wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes. “I’m not your daddy, John. I’m not going to hit you.”

“Bastard,” John choked out because really, it was a low blow even for Sherlock. But he stopped himself from saying more because he knew exactly what this was. “You don’t have to go into self-defense mode Sherlock. I’m not judging you.”

But it was a lie, and they both knew it was a lie. “Not everyone wants to be saved, John,” Sherlock hissed before turning on his heels and walking away.

“Where the hell are you going?” John shouted at him, refusing to chase after the idiot.

“I’m walking back to camp John,” Sherlock sighed and John could have hit him. “You might want to figure out a ride because if you attempt to follow me, I will poison you.”

Bastard, but John didn’t put it past him, especially not angry as he was. So he let the tiny figure of Sherlock Holmes recede from view until he looked down and realized he was shaking in the coming dark.

“Shit,” he whispered as he took out his mobile to call Sarah. “Shit shit shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person and I love it ;)
> 
> Free hugs anyone?


	7. All You Need is Love

Sarah picked him up twenty minutes after he called in a camp van. She took him in, looking him up and down, as he climbed in the van, and sighed.

“Girl troubles?” she asked as John closed the door and she turned the car around. “Or should I say boy troubles?”

“How-“ John tired but Sarah only smiled at him, soft and real.

“I’m not an idiot, John,” she reminded him. “Nearly the whole camp knows, but this was a sort of conformation, you know?”

“Fucking hell,” John sighed as he sunk lower in his seat. They sped down the small highway and Sarah reached out one hand to pat his shoulder comfortingly.

“We’re not judging you,” she promised. “A few of us are kinda jealous actually. And two people want to watch.” John snickered and Sarah put her hand back on the wheel, satisfied that John was alright. “So what happened?” she pressed and John looked at her.

“I’ve messed things up quite royally,” he admitted and Sarah laughed.

“If there’s one thing you’re good at John, it’s making things better,” she reassured him turning down the dirt road to camp. “I have complete faith in you.”

And as stupid and sentimental as Sherlock would have labeled that small pep talk, it helped.

Mike was waiting for him in the bunk when he got back. The boys were resisting sleep, wrestling each other into mattresses strewn across the wooden bunk floors, and Mike was trying desperately to referee, a plastic whistle in his hand.

“-and the match goes to Sam, well done,” he yelled as Sam reached down to help a rumpled Jordan off the floor while the fourth-graders cheered. “Last one for the night, Sam versus Ha- hello John,” he smiled, turning around, as John closed the door behind him.

Fifteen fourth graders swarmed John, hugging whatever leg they could reach, and John laughed.

“Last match guys, and then bed,” John threatened, still smiling, and the boys detached themselves to egg Sam and Harry on.

“How was your day off?” Mike asked as John came to stand beside him, watching the scuffle in the small space between the looming bunk beds to make sure no one really got hurt.

John grimaced. “I may be staying in nights more often than not,” he admitted and Mike winced, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Ouch,” he sympathized. “Sorry about that, mate.”

“It’s alrigh- Harry, that’s a fowl! No eye scratching!” John yelled and Harry moved his hands away from Sam’s face. “They give you the week schedule?”

“We’re going on an overnight Friday,” Mike told him, leaning against a clothes’ cubby. “Rafting Friday, camp out that night and come back Saturday. Then a whole bunch of packing Sunday and the boys leave Monday morning.”

He whispered the last part; it was always a bad idea to mention the end of camp in front of the boys too early. When they got here, they were painfully homesick for a good week before they finally acclimate and had fun, only to go back home as camp ended. It was a rather vicious circle.

John grinned though. “Love rafting,” he confessed and mike smiled back. “The boys will be thrilled.”

“They’ve already started packing bags,” Mike admitted. “And a whole day early too. Though we may have to explain to them that a change of socks and a t-shirt does not constitute a- Three! Two! One! Well done, Harry!”

John fell into an uneasy sleep that night. The image of Sherlock’s eyes as he’d confronted him made him sick. He’d never seen someone look so vulnerable in his life. Especially not Sherlock, the boy was near unflappable. He put up walls like people changed clothes, effortlessly and constantly. But outside the cinema, he’d looked so perfectly broken-hearted and betrayed it made John physically ill. And it had been his fault.

He knew he should confront Sherlock, talk to him, explain to him that he didn’t judge him. He had an alcoholic little sister, for god’s sake, who was he to judge another person? But John’s cowardice won out in the end and he stayed hidden behind his campers and their activities and it all went perfectly. They didn’t even have swim on Thursday, which was a veritable sign from the gods the he was justified in avoiding the cutting boy.

But as they stood in the main field of camp waiting for their busses on Friday, John knew his luck had run out. For coming up the hill to wait with them were three of the lifeguards and Sherlock’s mop of black stood out like a sore thumb.

Of course. John had been utterly stupid. Of course the camp would send lifeguards with a group of fourth-graders when they went _rafting_. Next to Sherlock was one of the girl lifeguards, a sweet if not rather mousy girl named Molly, and Riley. They looked a bit cinematic coming over the hill in the morning fog and John could hear the G221 girls running over to hug Molly.

John made it his duty to ignore Sherlock firmly and Sherlock, for once, complied. John could hear a few of the other counselors twittering about the cold front between the former bosom buddies but he couldn’t be arsed to care. Now, in the morning light and wearing a white tank top, John could clearly see the raised holes on the inside of the lifeguard’s arm and they rankled him bitterly.

But the enthusiasm of fifteen fourth-graders was a hard thing to tap down and every good counselor knew you practically mimicked your kids’ energy. So John enjoyed his bus ride, with Jordan in the seat next to him, Chris singing The Most Annoying Song behind him with Harry and Jason and Sam telling jokes to the G221 girls and being abominable flirts. Sherlock hadn’t gotten on the bus with them; the lifeguards were riding in the camp van with the rest of the staff, like a nurse and two “wilderness experts.” John didn’t know if he was relieved or upset.

They got to the rafting site in two hours and the boys flooded out of the bus with reckless abandon, yelling and chasing after Mike as he laughed. John followed at the end, chatting to Mary, one of the G221 counselors. They’d seen each other, of course, at division meetings and staff activity nights, but John was surprised he didn’t know the pretty counselor better.

“They have so much energy, it just makes you feel so old sometimes,” Mary admitted and John laughed. She was holding one of her camper’s hands, a shy girl John thought was named Keera.

“At least yours don’t try to pound each other into the ground, mine make me feel old and weak,” John confessed and it was Mary’s turn to chuckle. They followed the group to where they sat by the edge of the forest and sat down at the back. Mary sent Keera on to sit with the other girls in the front and smiled at John, their thighs brushing in the dewy grass.

Riley stood at the front of the group and Molly and Sherlock stood behind him, quiet. Molly smiled at some of the girls and they waved back, enthusiastic. Sherlock’s eyes seemed to find John almost immediately before pointedly looking away.

Mary noticed. “Trouble in paradise?” she whispered and John groaned.

“Does everyone know?” he sighed and Mary laughed softly as Riley started speaking.

“Hey guys,” he smiled and the fourth graders cheered at him. “We’re gonna split you guys into groups of six to each raft. Every raft will have a counselor and all three of us lifeguards will be on the water with you to help if you need it. Sounds great?”

The kids cheered again and Sherlock looked positively bored. “Good,” Riley encouraged. “Let’s go over some safety rules then, shall we?”

“What happened?” Mary whispered and John tuned Riley out _good job, tune out the safety talk, Watson._

“I got personal. Apparently you’re not supposed to get personal with hookups,” John confessed and Mary eyed him carefully. John had always been blunt with his feelings, not one to keep many secrets, and he knew it was a philosophy that served him well when Mary spoke.

“If you’re getting personal, clearly you’re not happy with just hooking up,” she noted and John could’ve kissed her.

He settled for taking her hand and squeezing. “Mary, you are brilliant,” he grinned and she smiled back, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“I’m here all week,” she joked but then they were separating the kids into groups and John found himself in a raft with Sam, Jason, two girls from G221 and Molly.

The kids were ridiculously adept at rafting considering how young they were and John had to laugh at how miserably he failed to move his paddle correctly. Sam leaned over to show him and John ruffled his hair, whooping as they went over a large wave.

He could see Sherlock up ahead, looking rather like a windswept angel with his hair going in all directions and his lifevest clinging to him in the cold. And John realized with a blinding clarity just how brilliant Mary really was.

He wanted to _know_ that boy. He wanted to be able to point to the ridiculously attractive and impossibly brilliant teen in a crowd and say _yeah, he’s with me_. He wanted to peel Sherlock apart, layer by carefully-constructed layer, and see something real and raw and vulnerable and true and know he was perhaps the only person in the whole wide world to see that.

He _wanted_ Sherlock Holmes, and even though this was the stupidest thing he’d ever thought of, he did it anyway.

“Sherlock!” he yelled from his place at the front of his raft and Sherlock, in the back of his raft, turned around. “Sherlock, what if we were?”

The noise seemed to get lost in the crash of the waves and Sherlock’s “what?” mouthed over the thundering pound of the water filled him with a lost sort of courage. He turned to Molly, shot her a quick sorry, and leapt from the raft.

He knew immediately it was a stupid decision, the waves were freezing as they soaked him to the bone and near impossible to swim in; but luckily all he wanted was to swim with the current and in a moment he was clambering onto the back of Sherlock’s raft and Sherlock was helping him up, the unmistakable sign of laughter hiding in his eyes.

“Dating,” John finished unnecessary and Sherlock only gaped at him. “What if we _were_ dating?”

The lifeguard gazed at John with what could only be described as fondness. “I live in Windsor ten months out of the year,” he reminded John but John only smiled.

“There’s skype and phone calls and text messaging,” he shrugged, not one easily put off.

Sherlock shook his head, more in exasperation that in shame at John’s idiocy. “I don’t talk for days on end,” he offered. “I play violin when people try to have serious conversations with me. I do experiments on my school desk.”

“I love the violin,” John said and Sherlock sighed, like he was giving up.

The pale lifeguard leaned in, their bodies pressed in soaking wet contact, burning them like twin wicks. “I was in rehab this March,” he confessed softly, their faces close together, sharing the same air. “I haven’t used since. Happy?”

“Deliriously,” John grinned, and then he kissed Sherlock, all wet lips and damp fringe stuck to foreheads and hands clutched in the wet slivers of shirt beneath bulky lifejackets. Their noses brushed and John might have felt Sherlock’s teeth clink against his own but he could have gone on kissing the lifeguard forever if a loud “Oi” hadn’t come from the front of the raft.

The two teens pulled apart to the sight of four mildly horrified but mostly wide-eyed fourth graders and a maniacally-grinning Mike.

“If you two are done traumatizing the children,” he said, holding back a laugh, and John and Sherlock let each other go reluctantly, twin blushes gracing their faces. They both sat back down, filling Sherlock’s small seat, since there was no way John was swimming against the current back to his own raft.

And if they kept their fingers entwined between them, no one mentioned it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe I got saccharine. And maybe I defied the laws of nature, gravity, and water currents. But was it worth it? Yes. The answer is yes. 
> 
> We're also gonna ignore the consequences of two boys kissing in public, especially camp counselors. Happy world where everyone gets along, remember? ;)


	8. I Want to Hold Your Hand

The sun had nearly set as John helped his kids assemble their tents and start pathetically adorable fires on which they were supposed to cook something mostly edible. He was still dripping, both figuratively and literally, from his little stint in the river and the looks the other counselors were giving him were nothing short of leering.

“Have you guys registered for gifts yet?” Sally asked him as he crouched by a small bundle of twigs, trying to light them with a rather waterlogged matchbook. She was here with one of the nurses, just in case one of the kids managed to brain themselves in the woods somehow. Knowing his kids, John had full faith in it happening.

“Oh, shut it,” he groaned and Sally took mercy on him, pulling out a lighter to set the bundle aflame. She merely shrugged at the look he gave her.

“I don’t smoke,” she protested to his wordless insinuation and he arched an eyebrow in response. “But I am happy for you both.”

“Really?” John pushed, not satisfied to leave well enough alone. “I vividly remember you warning me off him not a week ago.”

Sally had the decency to blush, up to the roots of her hair. “I didn’t mean it badly you know,” she offered, looking down. “I was just worried about you.”

“I know,” John smiled, hand warm in hers as she helped him up from the muddy ground. “Lucky for both of us that I’m a big boy who can make grown-up decisions.”

“Shut up,” she laughed, pushing him, and John whistled for the B221 boys to come down and gather around the pathetic fire to attempt burger grilling.  They manage to cook it enough to avoid food poisoning and that’s all anyone can ask from campfire food, really.

He had first shift watch, making sure no fourth graders crept across the carefully-constructed gender barrier of girls on the left side of the fires and boys on the right, and so he got an earful from every counselor as they meandered their way to their tents. Most were comprised of lewd grins and even lewder suggestions. Mary let him kiss her cheek.

“Thank you,” he told her and she squeezed his hand.

“Glad I could be of service,” she smiled and winked. “Though I have to admit, I was wishing it wouldn’t work. You really are too cute to waste on the male population.”

John laughed, relaxing back, and soon enough Kitty, a G221 counselor, came to relieve him. He stretched, yawning comically, and walked back to his tent. The counselor tents were placed just close enough to their kids’ tents that they could hear if there was any trouble, but far enough away that they could snore in peace and get away with it. It was practically a mini-vacation, the privacy of the one-person pup tent, and John relished in it, climbing into his sleeping bag.

When his tent started to unzip from the outside, John immediately assumed it was one of his campers with a problem. The sight of Sherlock Holmes, smiling unapologetically at waking John up, was a shock to the system.

“What are you doing here?” John gaped, still having the good sense to whisper. “I thought the lifeguards went back to camp?”

“Molly and Riley did,” Sherlock admitted, zipping up the tent behind him. John remembered the camp van pulling away right before dinner and being slightly put-out that Sherlock hadn’t said goodbye. “I managed to convince them to let me stay.”

“How the hell did you manage that?” John asked, not really caring, as Sherlock loomed over him in the small tent before settling down to straddle him, still wrapped in his sleeping bag like a baby.

“Told them I’d never gone camping before,” Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned with just how _hot_ he was, seeping through the already stifling fabric of John’s sleeping bag. “They offered me a tent but I assured them I’d fine _somebody_ to bunk with.”

John didn’t even question it. “Come here,” he ordered, sitting up, and Sherlock leaned forward obligingly, letting John kiss him open. It was ridiculous how fast their kisses had become familiar, they’d only been doing this for a month for Christ’s sake, and yet John already felt like he knew Sherlock’s mouth by heart, like a map laid open and clean before his eyes. It didn’t make the whole situation any less arousing though.

Sherlock reached down and over to unzip the bag and hovered above John for only the minute it took to pull the offending fabric out from between them, before he came back down with a snap of his hips that sent John’s eyes rolling back in his head.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he croaked into the boy’s exposed throat and Sherlock grinned against him.

“Who said anything about not finishing?” he laughed into John’s open mouth, starting on John’s pyjama bottoms. They were drawstring, and Sherlock’s fingers worked at lightning speed, untying knots in the dark.

John groaned. “We’re not seriously having sex in a tent,” he protested, meekly mind you, because the thought of Sherlock sucking him off in the small structure was frighteningly appealing.

“It would appear we are,” Sherlock offered and then his fingers were inside John’s trousers , crawling on the outsides of his pants. John shivered as they traced the lines of his rapidly-filling erection and then his bollocks, drifting slightly lower and suddenly their eyes met. Even in the near-complete darkness, John could see the want in Sherlock’s eyes, could see the unconcealed desire, and he was suddenly frightened.

“Do you have Vaseline?” Sherlock asked suddenly, his eyes never leaving John’s, and John was reminded of a documentary he’d seen once about lions and how they stalked their prey.

“Yeah, in my bag, why-“ John started and then it all suddenly connected in his slightly above-average brain and all the air left his lungs.  “No,” he protested breathlessly, Sherlock’s fingers just a strip of fabric away from his perineum. “No Sherlock, not here-“

“Then where?” Sherlock shot back, his eyes small fires in the blackened tent. “In a bed? In a hotel bed in Paris by the Eiffel Tower?” The genius sucked in a shaky breath and John unconsciously ran his hands up and down his thin arms, calming him.

“We’re leaving on Sunday,” he reminded John softly, voice near broken and John could only nod back, a broken sort of “Yeah.”

“I want you,” Sherlock said and John let his head fall back, hitting the hard ground beneath him. He was going to regret this in every muscle in his body by tomorrow. “Fuck. Okay, yes,” he groaned and Sherlock kissed his offered chest through the fabric of his t-shirt.  And then he was reaching around John, pulling at his bag, and rifling through until he took out the small tin, packed with the intention of being used on chapped hands.

“Pants,” Sherlock ordered and John pulled them down wordlessly along with his pyjama bottoms, tossing them into the corner of the tent. There was a rock digging into his back. The tent smelled like dust and mold and the sort of earthy smell John associated with camping. It was hardly the paradigm of romantic.

“Hush,” Sherlock eased, as if he could sense John’s line of thought. Bloody mind-reading bastard probably could. “Have you done this before?” he asked as John drew his knees up instinctively, baring himself.

“Yeah,” John confessed, even though it’d only been the once and he’d been the one on the giving end. But Sherlock didn’t seem to want details as he prepared his fingers.

“Good, then this should be easier,” he assured and then unceremoniously sunk one finger into John.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_ ,” John swore as quietly as he could and Sherlock paused. He let his other hand fall on John’s exposed stomach, rubbing at it soothingly and sat silently until John put himself back together and nodded. “Okay, go on.”

Sherlock may have been abrupt, but he was gentle, John had to give him that. He worked John slowly, stretching and, after he’d added a second finger, scissoring the muscle open. He was murmuring things as he worked and it took John a while to realize they were _words_ , falling out of Sherlock’s lips as though he wasn’t really aware he was saying them.

“-Argon, Potassium, Calcium, Scandium, Titanium, Vanadium-“ rumbled from those perfect lips like a prayer and John had never been so confused.

“Any particular reason you’re listing the elements?” John asked, propping himself up on his elbows and then stumbling back as he arched beneath Sherlock’s fingers as the genius found his prostate like he was trained to.

Sherlock grinned at him, black hair beginning to frizz from the heat inside the small tent and John wanted nothing more to kiss him. “Because the sight of you opening up beneath me would be enough to make me come in my trousers if I don’t distract myself,” he explained, not a hint of shame, and John honestly wondered if he’d died. He didn’t wonder if he’d gone to heaven or hell, he had a feeling they’d both look like this.

“You’re going to kill me, you git. You know that, right?” he groaned in lieu of an intelligent response and Sherlock only hummed, adding a third finger in an attempt to make John see stars. He succeeded.

Soon, _not soon enough_ , Sherlock pronounced him ready and John swore. “Thank _fucking_ god, fuck me already,” he ordered and he could have sworn he saw the posh boy flush.

“Such language,” the lifeguard teased, starting on his own zip. John hadn’t seen him yet, but he had the distinct feeling that Sherlock was hard enough to cut diamonds. “Your kids are next door, John.”

“Shit,” John cursed, sitting up. “Hand me your shirt.”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically. “Why?” he pressed and John could have hit him.

“Because I need something to bite down on so I don’t wake the fucking camp up,” John explained and Sherlock really did flush, pulling his shirt off with a motion so clumsy, it only confirmed John’s suspicion on the level of the boy’s arousal.

“You swear significantly more when you’re aroused,” Sherlock observed as he slicked himself up and tugged on a condom he’d pulled from his back pocket, _cocky bastard,_ and John sighed, wrapping his hands around the back of Sherlock’s neck. The moment turned tender so quickly, John almost held back. Almost being the operative word.

“No, I swear more when I’ve just been teased open and then allowed to sit here, unfucked,” he said and Sherlock grinned at him. “So stop faffing around and get on with it.”

Sherlock’s steady ease didn’t falter as he slid into John, the counselor biting down on the t-shirt hard enough to feel his teeth grind together in an attempt to stifle a scream. Sherlock, sensing his tension, ran soothing hands up and down the boy’s chest, murmuring into his shoulder as his head fell to the crook of John’s neck.

“Fuck,” the posh boy let out in a slow hiss and John smiled against his impossible curls. He unwound one hand to run it through Sherlock’s hair, letting his fingers snag on the knots. They let a moment wash over them, gentle and unassuming, before Sherlock sat up and started moving, fucking John in lazy strokes.

“Ah,” John let out, arching back. “Perfect, you’re perfect. I just need- a little to the left-“

Sherlock shifted immediately and John shot up, stuffing the shirt back in his mouth just in time. Sherlock’s fingers sunk into his hips and the new angle meant he was hitting John perfectly more often than not and the rocks in his back weren’t even bothering him anymore as he braced his feet on the tent floor and rocked up, prompted a moan from Sherlock that he quickly muffled with his fist.

It wasn’t particularly romantic, what with the pervading smell of nature and smoke and the sweat dripping down in between them as they panted in the dark. It wasn’t even that amazing really, both of them far too young and inexperienced to manage more than a little slice of wonderful. But it was theirs and it felt like a stolen moment, undeserved and ridiculously treasured.

John reached down and pried one of Sherlock’s hands off his skin, threading their fingers together. It would hold.

Sherlock came with a soft noise of warning and then a tiny grunt as he spilled into John, eyes blown wide and out of proportion, black with desire and lust. He pulled out quickly, pausing only to tie off the condom, before letting his mouth sink down around John in perfect succession.

John groaned, fists gathering in Sherlock hair, and he was so oversensitized from the prostate stimulation and the kissing and the feel of Sherlock exploding inside him that it only took seconds before he was coming in Sherlock’s perfect mouth. Sherlock swallowed like a sport before licking John clean and grimacing.

“I’d spit, but it might lead to questions,” Sherlock explained as John’s eyes darkened at the drop of white still hovering on Sherlock’s bottom lip. He wanted to lick it, and then immediately berated himself for the thought.

“Could you at least pretend to like it?” John grumbled, falling back down and Sherlock curled up beside him automatically. They’d never done this before, cuddled, and John couldn’t help but smile as he pulled the sleeping bag up around them like a blanket and let his arm cradle Sherlock’s waist, fingers on his sharp hipbone.

“You eat far too many green vegetables,” Sherlock scolded and John laughed quietly. They were bizarre, and quite a bit mental, he realized and it thrilled him more than it had any right to do. John began to think he might not be quite sane. He had never been happier.

When Sherlock began to talk, John nearly missed it, so wrapped up was he in running in fingers lazily thought those angel curls. They were criminal, honestly, but Sherlock’s voice drifted to him through his post-orgasmic haze and he turned his head so he could watch Sherlock talk, eyes near closed and eyelashes curling.

“I discovered narcotics when I was fourteen,” Sherlock confessed and John realized suddenly that Sherlock, professional ice-man and deferrer, was _confiding_ in him. It felt more intimate than sex had.

“I got addicted when I was fifteen,” he went on and John tightened around, trying to project mentally _this is a safe place, you are safe here._ “That was when I learned to handle a cock, if you were curious,” he offered offhandedly and John was filled with the sudden desire to track down all of Sherlock’s dealers and beat the living shit out of them.

“Why?” John asked and they didn’t pretend to think he was asking about why a fifteen-year-old addict would need to learn how to give blow-jobs. They weren’t that naïve.

Sherlock sighed, burrowing deeper into John’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. “I don’t exactly fit in, John. Cocaine had an odd way of making me more…normal, if you’ll believe it.”

“Self-medicating,” John filled in the blanks and Sherlock blinked at him, surprised.

“You really are above average sometimes, John,” he encouraged and John kissed his forehead, holding him closer. The message was rather clear. They sat like that in silence for a few moments before Sherlock finished his story.

“Mycroft found out when I was sixteen. Took a while, but I got clean in March,” he smiled softly, his usual angles fading into something gentler, something you could hug without fear of being cut. “This camp was supposed to be penance, you know? Proof I could be normal and sober on my own. Can’t say I haven’t been tempted to cheat but-“

“But nothing,” John growled and Sherlock stilled. “Never again, promise me. And don’t give me crap, we’re dating now, I can make extravagant demands.”

“Never again,” Sherlock promised, smiling at John fondly. “There. Now you know more about me than near anyone else.”

John’s heart nearly burst with the weight of that kind of trust. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I’d tell you about me, but you already know everything.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “I don’t know an absurd amount of things about you. What you want to be when you’re older, for starters-“

“Doctor,” John told him, squeezing his hand, “or soldier. Maybe both. What about you?”

“I want to be a pirate,” Sherlock told him with absolutely no hesitation and John nearly laughed out loud.

“If I told you I loved you right now, would you believe me?” he asked, arms holing this impossible boy even closer, fitting him into the curve of his body, uniting like puzzle pieces in some complex game of life played by villians and heroes.

Sherlock thought about it for four whole seconds. “No.”

“Why not?” John complained, laughing into Sherlock’s hair. He wasn’t sure if he did, really, but he knew instinctively he could. Given time, energy, and a lot of this absolute _perfectness_.

“We’ve only known each other a month, bit premature, don’t you think?” Sherlock slid off as he nestled into their tighter position. “You don’t even know my favorite colour.”

John dwelt on it a minute. “Ah, it’s a trick question,” he declared at last, still on the fringes of laughter. “The great Sherlock Holmes is far too intelligent and adult for such immaturity as a favorite colour.”

“Brilliant deduction John, excellent follow through. Well done,” Sherlock praised and John preened. “Entirely wrong, of course. It’s blue.”

John chuckled. “Really? Always put you down for more of a green man.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock grumbled but he was falling asleep, John could feel in his limbs, the way the boy shifted from brittle bones into dead weight. John was drifting off too, but he held onto consciousness for a few more moments, gripping it by the tips of his fingers.

“Now I know what colour scarf to get you for Christmas,” he joked and Sherlock smirked, half-asleep. John thought he might be on the edge as well as he said, “I don’t love you, by the way.”

“Yes you do,” Sherlock said, nonplused. “Goodnight John.”

“Night Sherlock,” John sighed and let sleep overtake him, all sweaty limbs and bruising kisses and soft murmurs of _love, yes you do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I write another story involving sexy-times in a tent, somebody please shoot me. Or maybe just gently steer me to, I don't know, hotel sexy-times. Can you tell I rather like camping?
> 
> And yes, in this universe, it's John who buys Sherlock that ridiculous faffing scarf. I have said it and now it is canon!


	9. Hello, Goodbye

John woke up to the unwelcome sound of Mike strolling into his tent.

“Good morning John! Time to get our kids up- oh fucking hell!” Mike cried, crouching in the entrance of the tent.

John groaned, rolling over and burying his face in Sherlock’s chest. He didn’t bother with the perfunctory _“This isn’t what it looks like,”_ because it was exactly what it looked like. Sherlock’s arms curled around him like some sort of octopus, legs tangled, and both still rather naked. At least they’d managed to crawl into the sleeping bag for the most part, or poor Mike might never have recovered.

“Morning Michael, if you would be so kind as to close the tent, John is busy,” Sherlock said, not even opening his eyes as he held John tighter, running one hand through his bed-hair. “Although I must ask how on Earth you knew what John was shouting last night?”

“No, budge Sherlock,” John moaned, blinking his eyes open. “I really do need to wake my kids up. Mike-“

He froze at the traumatized look on Mike’s face, a mix between horrified and offended. “I’ll wait outside then,” the poor counselor squeaked before letting the tent flap fall, not even zippering it.

John turned an angry gaze on Sherlock, weakened by his pillow-crushed face. “Now why have you gone and said something like that?” he pushed, trying to untangle himself.

Sherlock smirked. “You know you’re adorable when you’re sleepy and angry?” he asked, letting John go and the teen did, scrambling up and searching for his pants on the tent floor.

“Shut it,” John grumbled, finding them in a wad by the tent door. “This tent reeks of sex,” he commented, pulling them on and trying to ignore Sherlock behind him, propped up on his elbows and unabashedly ogling John’s arse.

“I know,” Sherlock smiled and John wanted nothing more than to jump back into that sleeping bag and kiss that smug face. “Isn’t it glorious?”

“You’re a right wanker, you know that?” John laughed, pulling on a pair of trousers from yesterday after an investigatory sniff.

“Oh of course not, that’s what I have you for,” Sherlock said back and John grinned, pulling on a shirt.

“Do me a favor and dismantle the tent,” John asked, bending down to kiss the lifeguard. “Preferably after you put on a pair of trousers.”

“You take the fun out of everything,” Sherlock pouted and John just winked as he ducked out of the tent and found Mike waiting a yard away, not meeting his eye.

With an almighty internal sigh, John came over and wrapped his arm around the counselor’s shoulder. “What’s this then?” he pressed. “You saw us kiss in a raft.”

Mike flushed, looked at the ground. “It’s different then…that,” he said awkwardly and John took pity on him.

“We just slept,” he lied and Mike looked up, meeting his gaze.

“Really?” he asked hopefully and John grinned, all feral and toothy.

“No,” he purred and Mike shuddered. “But if it helps, think what you like.” And with that, he strolled away to wake up the B221 boys. With yodeling.

                                                                                                *

John was speechless at how fast the last two days went. He’d expected them to go fast, counselors weren’t allowed to leave their kids on packing day, and he’d spent that glorious Sunday sitting on top of one of the bunk beds yelling down commands. But Sunday night was well and here and the boys sat at their table in the dining hall for end-of-year banquet.

The specialty counselors waited tables, to give the waiters one day’s rest, and John figured it was more than pure luck that Sherlock was assigned his table.

“I want to see you tonight,” he whispered in John’s ear in between serving the burgers and rushing off to get more fries. Banquet was one of the best meals camp served, pure meat and unlimited curly fries.

“I’m not allowed to leave my kids on the last night,” John told him, turning his head slightly, and if his lips brushed the lifeguard’s ear, who was to say it was his fault? “You can come visit us.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I’ll try,” he promised, squeezing John’s shoulder, before running off. Mike, John noticed, had pointedly looked the other way when Sherlock came to their table. Biting back a grin, John asked Carl to pass the meat.

Banquet always ended with a great deal of singing and dancing, the boys jumping up on the tables and benches to sing the camp song and dance the ridiculous dances they’d made up to go along with it. John and Mike were the first one’s up, cheering their’ kids off the benches, and making elaborate movements. John caught Sherlock out of the corner of his eye watching him, covering his mouth to keep from laughing, and John winked back, grinning as saucily as he could manage. The boy even blushed.

Awards were given: best at sports, most camp spirit, best bunk, and John’s boys cheered like lunatics when the best bunk of the fourth grade division went to B221. John ran up to accept their prize, fifteen key chains with the award inscribed, and set to handing them out. And then the camp song was sung one more time, followed by two line dances and Gangnam Style, and then it was off to bed.

“Food party!” John yelled as soon as the boys were all piled into B221 and his kids roared. The suitcases had all been put outside and on a truck, and the bunk was near empty except for the massive amounts of snack the boys had never finished and hadn’t had room for in their suitcases.

The food was dumped in the center of the bunk and the boys sat in a crocked circle around it, laughing as they stuffed their faces. John and Mike shot each other equally resigned faces. They knew this much sugar was ensuring their kids would never go to sleep, but it _was_ the last night of camp.

At ten, there was a soft knock at the door and Jordan opened it to find Sherlock on the porch, hands in his pockets.

“John, your boyfriend’s here!” Jordan called out and everyone laughed, Sherlock included.

“I was told there was a party,” the lifeguard said awkwardly, peering in. “May I come in?”

John grinned. “I don’t know boys. This is a food party. And he didn’t bring a snack.”

Sherlock looked at John as though he’d much like to punch him, but the B221 boys were taking up the cheer.

“Yeah, he needs a snack!” “Get a snack!” “Not fair!”

Sherlock spoke above the din. “I don’t have a snack,” he tried and the boys hushed. “But perhaps I could give you something else. Maybe a story?”

The fourth-graders looked surprisingly tempted and John bit back a smirk. “I think,” Jason said, speaking on behalf of the boys, “that he should tell the story, and if we don’t like it, he has to get us a snack.”

There was a general murmur of agreement to that sound plan and Sherlock was allowed to take a seat in the broken circle. He stuck his tongue out at John across the way and John grinned back before Sherlock spoke.

“Boys, have you ever head the story of Carl Powers?”

Thirty minutes later, the boys were staring at Sherlock wide-eyed and hopelessly besotted.

“So they never found out who killed him?” Harry asked, clutching his knees nervously.

“Never,” Sherlock grinned manically, and it rather made the story. “They say he still haunts the swimming pool, searching for the man who killed him.”

Nobody spoke for a long moment before Sam said, “I think he can stay.” There was a chorus of “here, heres,’ and Sherlock was handed a bag of Maltesers. Thus settled, every boy turned to John expectantly.

“Now you have to finish Oliver Cromes,” James demanded and it was John’s turn to flush, smiling softly.

“Quite right. Where was I?” he checked.

“Oliver was being held over a fish tank,” Harry informed him.

“You idiot, it was a shark tank,” Sam shot back.

“Sam, language,” John admonished and Sam hung his head, properly ashamed. “Say you’re sorry.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Sam and Harry kindly accepted, nodding politely.

John spared a glance at Sherlock, who was watching the whole exchange with a loving smile. John rather wanted to ravish the teen right there, but suppressed it painfully. “Right. So Oliver Cromes was being held over a shark tank-“

“Told you,” Sam whispered to Harry and was promptly shushed. Grinning, John went on.

“…and so the Queen awarded Oliver a medal of distinction for his valor and Oliver retired to marry Ingrid and have four children in Bath. The end,” John finished and the boys burst into applause, hooting and hollering as they did. John blushed adorably and then glanced at his watch.

“Smokes, it’s near twelve. You boys ought to be in bed,” John said and the fourth-graders broke into obvious protests. “I know, I know, it’s the last night. But you’re already two hours past bedtime.”

“You can still have torch time after lights out,” Mike eased, an already-drowsy Carl on his lap.  “And you can talk to your neighbor as long as you whisper and stay in your bunk-beds.”

That pacified the boys and they trotted neatly off to brush their teeth and crawl into their poorly-made bed, now that all their sheets, save a pillow and blanket, were already packed. John waited until all the boys had gone to bed before announcing: “Torch time in three, two, one,” and flipped off the light as six torched switched on from various bunk beds.

“Goodnight boys,” he said softly, nostalgic, and fifteen sleepy voices chorused goodnight. Tired, he crawled into his bottom bunk and found Sherlock already there, waiting for him.

“You would make a remarkable dad,” Sherlock whispered, taking his hand as he sat up, crossing his legs beneath him. The two boys sat like that, cross-legged on opposite sides of the small bunk bed, fingers entwined between them.

“It’s a lot easier when you don’t have to worry about feeding or schooling them,” John admitted and Sherlock laughed, coming closer to nuzzle John’s face like an overgrown cat, noses bumping.

“I shall miss you like an ache,” he confessed and John kissed him lightly, only a peck. He wouldn’t dream of doing more, not with his kids so close.

“I shall miss you like a wound,” John retorted, squeezing the pale hand in his. “But we don’t have to say goodbye just yet. We still have three hours after the kids leave tomorrow, during cleanup.” Cleanup was the most-dreaded part of camp, cleaning the bunks after the kids had all gone home.

Sherlock winced. “My brother’s picking me up with the busses. I have to be in Windsor by tomorrow afternoon.”

John’s heart broke. “Oh Sherlock,” he whispered, reaching out to wrap the impossible boy in a hug, holding him close. Sherlock folded in like a house of cards, wrapping his long arms around John’s back. “At least I’ll get to meet Mycroft,” he tried to joke but Sherlock only kissed his ear.

“You’ll wish you hadn’t,” he predicted and then sat back. For a minute they merely studied each other in the darkness, soaking each other in. John thought that if he tried hard enough, he could graph the slope of Sherlock’s cheekbones, keeping it his mind like a piece of logic to remember the lifeguard by. And then he lay down, gesturing for Sherlock to lie down with him, face to face, so their ankles could cross and their fingers could move between them, tracing patterns on flesh.

“I know you can’t sleep here,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock’s offered index as it pressed against his mouth. “But stay a little while, yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered back in the darkness. “Of course.”

They spoke of nothing, of John’s favorite ice-cream flavor and Sherlock’s first violin lesson and John’s fear for Harriet and Sherlock’s favorite composer. They spoke of their favorite parts of London and their favorite places to go on holiday and their favorite parent. And somewhere in the middle, John must have fallen asleep because he woke at four a.m. to feel Sherlock slipping out of his arms.

“Don’t go,” John whimpered softly and Sherlock kissed his forehead.

“See you soon,” he promised and he left the bunk, letting the wooden door close gently behind him as John fell back involuntarily into sleep.

 

Leaving day was always miserable. John stood by the busses, making sure his campers got to their busses safely, while simultaneously hugging them tight and telling them how special they were.

He was hugging Jordan outside the bus bound for Norfolk, telling him what a wonderfully creative soul he had, when there was a soft tap on his back. Sherlock stood there, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back.

“My brother’s here,” he said gently and John glanced behind him to where a sleek black car sat. By the car lounged a tall, ginger-haired man, who was far skinner than John had expected, watching them avidly.

Jordan let of John with a squeeze and clambered onto the bus. John couldn’t quite meet Sherlock’s eye, he had a feeling that if he did he might burst into tears.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, read his mind and swept him up into a bone-crushing hug. He smelled like rainwater and smoke and woods and dirt and that same vivid Sherlock smell that John had smelt in the tent and he never wanted to let him go. He had the unexpected premonition that their lives would be full of these hugs, desperate hugs on the cusps of goodbyes, and he held the boy tighter.

“If convenient, come visit me in Windsor,” Sherlock whispered, breath soft on his ear, and they let go gently, relinquishing each other until only their hands were irrevocably intertwined. “If inconvenient, come anyway,” he finished and John laughed.

“I’m so happy I met you,” John confessed and Sherlock squeezing their hands.

“I honestly never believed I would meet someone like you,” Sherlock confessed in turn and they might have stood there forever had Sherlock’s brother not come over and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Sherlock, we really must go,” he said plainly and Sherlock let go of John’s hands, as if every molecule of separation hurt him.

“You must be the boyfriend,” Mycroft said suddenly and John snapped up, meeting his eyes. Sherlock was flushing and John could imagine the scene well, Sherlock yelling he _had to see his boyfriend_ and this posh boy’s eyebrows leaving his forehead altogether.

“John Watson,” John introduced because he was polite and he wasn’t sure what else to do, sticking out his hand.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said, shaking his hand firmly, and then looking John up and down. “I expect we shall meet again.”

“Oh, most definitely,” John said and Sherlock smiled at him, near watery. Mycroft put his hand back on Sherlock’s shoulder, steering him to the car, before Sherlock broke away and launched himself at John.

It was the messiest kiss John had ever been a part of, uncoordinated and unskilled, and he treasured it, bringing his hands up to cradle Sherlock’s skull and deepen the kiss, branding himself on the inside of Sherlock’s cheek.

 Mycroft coughed behind them but Sherlock only tilted his head, improving the angle tremendously, and John went boneless. Sherlock’s fingers clutched the back of his shirt desperately, holding him impossibly closer, and John whimpered into Sherlock’s open mouth

“Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes, take your tongue out of that boy’s mouth and get in the car!” Mycroft demanded and the boys had to break apart as John burst out laughing.

“Best do as he says, love,” John laughed into Sherlock’s shoulder, turning red, and Sherlock chuckled into his hair.

“If we ignore him, maybe he’ll go away,” Sherlock suggested and Mycroft’s indignant “I will do no such thing,” sent them back into peals of laughter.

But they had to let go and Harry was tugging at John’s jeans and with a soft wave, Sherlock in his black car sped away.

“Write to me!” Sherlock yelled out of the open window and John yelled back an “Obviously,” that made the genius smile. And then the car disappeared and Sherlock was no more than a summer memory, etched into photographs and letters.

“Do yourself a favor Harry,” John advised as he hugged the little boy into his chest. “Fall in love with someone sane.”

“Yes John,” Harry grinned cheekily and John thought it might all be alright.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! Done just at the end of summer- look at that! I loved writing this little bit of fluff and I hope you loved reading it. Read it again in winter when it's snowing and you're cold. ;)
> 
> If you haven't been listening to the songs that inspired each chapter title-do. Or just listen to the Beatles in general. To me, nothing ever said summer quite like Beatles music :)
> 
> As always, all my love. XOXO  
> \- Shay

**Author's Note:**

> So it seems I've started another series. Good job me! I wanna say weekly updates, but that's not a promise cause I really am away. But you will hear from me, and soon! Mwahahaha ;)


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